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Fatal Disappearance
As the ghost of the spirit,
as the ghost of the flesh,
the vessel made of phosphenes,
the towering shadow
of the last person left,
fades in and out,
almost palpable,
at times almost a force,
moved and moving,
enchanted, as a garden
at dawn is enchanted,
seen and seeing,
at times,
breathing, even singing,
at times,
taking shape,
now and then,
becoming a Hydra,
at times inventing
the specter of progeny,
of its own design for bridges
between skin,
between fingertips,
between the memories
in the eyes,
it tells us again
that the patient
will not live
unless the patient
can find a way
to occupy some space.
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