November 8, 2007


I'm placed in a room. It's not what I see that keeps me here, it's the curvature, the line I followed....toes to crescent head. Your face remains so I stay. Cellos fill their lungs and stretch their achy sighs. Their voices dress themselves in bodices and spats, frilled skirts frayed grey. Soon faces vacuumed blank pop from strangled collars. I'm not to join in. I must watch. The ghosts choose mates, dirty little statues...another kind of doll. Male. They grow into air as the cello team plays on, seeding the room with dancing sound. Doll to doll the ghosts dance. You're behind their mute faces. I whisper in a coded sort of speak....i love you.... Born into a bubble the little message grows stars and calls to you, catching a song to ride on. I hope for a sign, eyes looking my way, but nothing. You're forever tipped upward, rivers of antique ghosts inbetween.....the dancers born from song....

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