It’s not new, this condition, just for awhile
kept deep
in the cortex of things imagined

Now the imagination comes of age

I see ourselves, full-lipped, blood-flushed
in cold air, still conflicted, still
embraced

boarding the uncharter’d bus of vanishment

backward glances over and done
afterimages
swirl and dissolve along a shoal of footprints

Simple ghouls flitter already among our leavings
fixing labels in their strange language
But
up to now we’re not debris
(only to their fascinated eyes)