a garden of earthly bodies & their trapings,

sweat left, spilling hours of embraces,

left here to outline an endless path of dust,

only for, someday, a new Phoenix to retrace




a graveyard of long dead movements,

the ones i can’t ever seem to recall,

save a pull, a push, & a quiet going under,

i choke on the depth of their empty faces


float at the bottom, swallow the current,

lungs bloated by the poison of the hour,

the dancing game of mirrors comes to a halt,

they filter out one by one for me to cower

  

the moment emptied, i resurface only to wade

but the proof remains



& my bed is no longer made.