I still look like something but
often now forget the detailed what.
I am an old hat expert come to haunting, so it happens.
I show up down the main streets of one small town, my town where I breathed before with everyone who’s since
exhaled into a real-life, living still while I —
spectre spectere spectator —
showily left the plane, or twice to only keep on coming back to pace sidewalks, pass former restaurants, eye smoking-porches for looks
I would’ve recognized back when —
in vivo corporealis verum est —
or when I breathe the past in, days I batted lashes over rims of Coca-cola-refracted pint glasses, carbon sparkling with
one lime wedge, a double-pour of sugarcane
fermented, distilled until the sugarcane like me has ended
and in its shape another eddied muddled muddied darker
how you would see if you looked out under your skin,
if you cut windows in —
what I mean is cane replaced with fresh animus,
residue the weight a breath is which you’d recognize under another label, maybe more a mortal one. So here, mere or simply, my answer among a whole.
What’s the name I have I turn my head back to?
Whisper me out loud —
succarum libatio rum spiritus sancti rum spiraculum