mind creaking around like an attic floor
trying to get around the bookshelf doors
to secret passageways
to redwalled rooms
to do in the midnight, moonlit night-noon
no body to hold real
close to me till i feel the glitter
of loveshivers traveling up my spine like white powder
squeeze my memory till you come
out of the crinkly folds of my brain till you come
around my place, slink around my window like a teenager
but its pictures in the attic, in the quiet, in the cold
none of it’s real like you –
it’s only stupid homonculi like toy model Mustangs or an airplane
in the attic window during a big brown sunset

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