what are you doing to me?
these marble figures
crashing at my feet
like chips of flint
begging to catch
fire, to catch a
breath of air
but my god,
my lungs
heaving,
I ask
you

what are you doing to me?
permeating stone and
teaching me what it
is to bend, when I
once stood my
ground and
said, you
cannot
move
me

and what are you doing to me?
your feet are padding around
in the dark tunnels of my
temporal lobe, hanging
lanterns where lights
went out in storms
of crazed chaos,
and don’t you
know that I
am often
a ghost,
( don’t
you? )

what are you doing to me?
I feel the sun’s light as
it shines into my rib
cage, and I find I
am drunk from
this warmth,
and I ask,

what are you
doing to
me?