You think there’s more to this. Look:
When I look I see skeletons walking around.
I see ghosts of mammals gallivanting
with iPhones in and out of bookshops,
yesteryear’s biplanes spiraling
into mad cumulonimbus formations
where a little lightning lurks. You think
there’s more to this—money,
media, occasional bouts with true love,
but I tell you I see dust in the rafters
of it all, and the dust becomes us
just as your evening gown becomes you,
as your sparkly blue toenail polish turns
everybody on. You’re making choices
that aren’t helping me think through
things clearly. Your decisions aren’t
making my life any less haunted just as
your apparel and accessories appear
as winding sheets, a taper’s winding wax,
because you are no mean symbol of death;
you are death’s best friend forever.
How else might one explain your fingers,
long and jointed, gesturing in the dark?
How else might one explain your eyes,
amber and lit like nightlights, as if by
five watt bulbs, my Halloween beauty,
trick of perception and treat to the senses,
for we are just beginning to see. The scales
are falling from our eyes, and now
men are as trees walking around us.