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.