Of course you called for things most soothing,
in that echo chamber between your hands,
a megaphone of hope that carried your entreaties to the
dusty other world flattened behind the blinds.
You’d get there yourself if you weren’t so
Three-dimensional, given to decay and eventual
fossilization, a form your own voice wouldn’t recognize
if it ever circled back to your demise.
They dropped in on wings to fool you,
wires rigged long before your arrival, scenes and lines
tightly scripted, pockets leaking a dime store’s glitter,
the censer fresh lit beneath your bed.
I thought you’d risen to our laughter, but that was just the
onset of the rigor, and before the dark robed one removed
his play face and trucked you to another floor, we
whiffed the rot of cardboard in the air.
