The music plays backwards,
pulling ghosts out of the smoke
and our eyes wide.

The invisible thread unimagined
as we feel the needle.
Arrow of absence erasing.
Summoning what had been
commanded to hide.

Fingers twitching in the air,
puppetry projecting somewhere.
Nausea and rejection we lean against.
A sticky enough fence is a web.

Make it stop but not end.
Maybe that’s backwards.
They are only sing-song words,
pretty instruments reversed.

A little mist in the moonlight,
frosty furrows. Grabby trees.
Bat’s sonar in a forest maddening.

Real sound rewound aloud.
A kind of breath. A wheeze.
Tails flopping in buckets, our hearts.
Tree hands grasping and we freeze.

Moonshadow army and insect army.
Our skin refracting like water,
in diamonds. Snake skin, snake spine,
snake tongue, snake blood, snake eyes.

Red eyes and sulfur smell.
You knew it was coming.
Retroactive dread, layered below.
The truth like being caught in a lie.
Bassline pounding beneath the whine.

Legs pumping in blackout.
So tired. Comically strung on twine.
Wired and rewired. Skin
infiltrated. Live and learn.

Smoke figures grinning,
leaning in, taking turns.
The wheels are spinning backwards
and screaming as something burns.


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