Empire of Ghosts
And you, I keep you all in a mason jar with some cotton, a maple stick or two, some pine needles; no need to poke air holes in the lid.
All the cats, tails bobbing like lovesick meat hooks — all the horses, whickering Neil Diamond melodies.
No touching, just manipulation with tweezers and toothpicks.
And you, your chin tucked beside my ear, mumbling your telephone number or address — I can never remember – your drone a soft palmful of bees.
No air needed.
And you, in that red silk jacket you wear in dreams, your hands tucked in pockets.
And you say, I want you to feel like.
No need to poke holes.
And with you, not touching hands, we compare fingernail polish the color of cooked shrimp or baby ears.
And you say, don’t you think that pink’s, like, altogether too happy?
down the rabbit hole 