One escalation never revealing
ghost truths.
So opalescent,
turning glistening gas skeletons
sideways, sand down eight hourglass waists as she
enters the room. There is something
so dark about time
it turns invisible. Any thought is quickly
detected and forced
to negate itself.

Is “self” illusional?

Whatever answer,

We can never know     for sure.

 

Within the puzzle is

another puzzle

that furrows brows

to permanence.

 

In my apparition:

A light flickers down the hall

and shadows spring from quick feet and a door opening.

 

Then the mirror,

then the mirror–and those eyes

surprised,

staring.