static/phantasmagoria

I quenched my thirst with acid rain;

and the stain on the wall bears 

the ghost of my hand gloved 

with the fingerprints of a foreign man.

what do children know of guilt? you ask.

clasped hands behind young backs

tasteless palms stained with chocolate?

A pity that the senses don't condense

upon those grasping limbs. 

But- no. 

 there is a window perched upon my shoulder 

that lets time in just as it allows it out

carelessly abandoned leaflet of paper,

draft of smoke. 

I cannot see my own hands, my own hands, my own hands;

the truth- the athletic, listless muscle

twists painfully.