There's an ill-wind ascending the stairs
Climbing the spine of my home
Crashed out in carrier bags, I promised you never to roam
But all that I say is made of smoke
As if every word I ever spoke
Dispersing in blusters and whispered away
The hovering torsos of my teens
Remembered in deconstructing scenes
I call on them now by a tempering moon
Marked in a darkening room, awaiting the mumbler's lull
In a night worn as thin and frail as a hummingbird's humble skull
As dignity half-forgets my name
The hovering torsos come again
My sun-flowered heart in a state of unrest
Everyone's archive weighs them down
And even a tourist in this town
Would smile just to know how to temper this moon
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