the dead must be hungry
the way they present themselves
to me – hat in hand
hollow legs

shrinking then wrapping
the corners as if embarrassed
I would be too

all that work to be dead
and still begging
not that I’m any safer here

stairs are one of the most
haunted places on Earth. I
could be sitting in a portal
or in the body

of something larger
someone’s work or unrequited love
a prison, the defense
of a choke-point

whatever it is, I feel its interest
it shakes my insides as if
listening for seed

it lands on me when
I’m not careful
forms to vacancies like
an owl to the tree

like your voice to my ear
when I’m sure you’re lying
or is it, when I’m sure
I would have lied

the agent contains it
all this stuck energy
all these dreams of fame
turned malevolent humility

power, rage, depravity
it keeps us down
long after
we have died

inside lurks
the cold black mass
of ever losing you
especially to me