liii.

                                    Same body
                        alternate
                        alive.

Your                   curves              continue,
                                    flux
                                    at image of old,
                                    limp
                                    at new language.
There’s a          ghost for
                        each of us        looming
                                                behind,
                                    winks
register nothing but    
                                    closed eyes.

                        Specters don’t hold hands,
they haunt
            like fumes,
                                    taunt our new selves

                                    not to touch.
Air is broken               tile.
We walk cautious,

                                    slippery feet.

___
Matthew Porubsky has four collections of poetry and works for Union Pacific Railroad as a freight conductor. Books, links and info at mppoetry.com.