I am a single bedroom of bones
whose white does not show under my skin
a garden museum, if you will,
a sense of closed-off heartlands
and secret claws curling in the
vessels of my painless planks.
I can do a good plank, a good minute of statue,
so if you looked closer you would never have
understood why I had shaken before;
I have stained the best of my childhood
by the bidding of a reliable impressionist,
so obviously fruitful in her legion that I
could not plant my feet into the
soiled mango ghosts of summer dreams.
I give my stories manicure if they ask nicely
although it hurts when they ask me
to cut my nails too deep,
and I am still trying to understand
how you can come in, without
blowing the attic apart.

The clutter is overdue, pregnant with
spider webs, spirals, spheres of indiscriminate verses
from an envelope spotted with age.
Where can I find the mystery
that will be posted to nostalgia?
In my living room perhaps; I suppose it is
an unused space where
you run your spirits like passing through molasses;

the telly has given its verdict:
the world is too big to be contained in its chest
and it cannot find a colour for its own blood
so what else but spirited away?

Too many conversations happen
that floorboards can memorise but
they are never alone in my bones, for I guess
I have a choice of removing myself in fiction,
to a place more or less haunted by my ego manifest
or a list of uninvited guests.