a dreamer's cataract

should I call you a ghost or just a nihility,
wolf-white and apart from things, not an anchor
to be found - smoother than your anonymity
or maybe flatter still -

skin on skin, your middle is a graveyard
of false intentions and fairer promises;
you are not opaque, drawn on innocence
to cover every single bruise and burned mistake

stardust antecedent to curves on film,
an absent possibility filled with american candy,
hysteria her, one-to-one hotel rooms
and forgetting how far we've come:

bones bear more than souls and shuddered harp strings,
metric notes under caesura umbrellas, a glue-like silence.