And still
It slowly tugs the hair on my legs
and claws into my back
until it shades me like an umbrella.
Like beads from a severed necklace
the sensations of the world have fallen,
and somehow I have nothing to sample.
Imprisoned by outline,
I am soaked in silhouette
and still
I am humble;
in case this shape -- this ghost -- has substance
I don’t want to make him angry;
I just want to make him.
