Cosmos

The Anarchic Neuron

Your space is there, but somehow

you are here, mopping the floors

of their amber tint with a

salt-rimmed cocktail of shoe

polish and sweat. You know

you are not the first.

Those ghosts smell of the rectangular

shades that eat at the dusty

brown paint, the fingers melted

in the pearled handle, the door

already ajar. You are not the first,

the last, the billionth. And you,

too, will slump with the weight

of names turned into percentages

before you, those faded stairs

and walls too representative of the sky

to not symbolize us. Already

the thought of bodies

before you

is rusting. Your shadow snarls

at an invisible clock

chanting omens

and playing with a Ouija board

of pineal glands and numbers.

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