have your ghost meet my ghost in the room at the end of the hall

the walls are closing in, we agreed.

hills like white trumpet calls

the sand storms dune we hope sun-soaked beneath bare feet;

I dream of a collaborative tropical escape: run busted hand

up mended leg;

fuck it all away.

it’s a million o’clock in late February and the Sirens sound off

across the polar vortex.

i awake to an announcement coming over the intercom:

“no skin.  i repeat, no skin.”