something like terror.
the force field useless
as the closet door creaks open.
remember how real that was.
keep a picture of yourself
holding a picture of yourself
inside you
so you retain authenticity.
it is one thing to see things.
it is another to feel them.
if things are to be real
we have to conceive of their duplicity.
the imitation can be real as the original
if you let your mind wander
out across that dead field
where some lonely man
thought of himself
when he caught a gust across the brow.
but that was so long ago.
and it is not remembered
the way he remembered it.
we'll all be remembered that way:
distinctly yet indiscriminately vague.
for our minds are not just
when taking note.
I think of you within my mind.
Walking circles, cutting grooves.
There is the deep indentation
of a genetic incantation,
or a selected interpretation,
of a life you allowed through insemination.
Let's not go there,
let's make a ghost.
