Anagrams

No one there. No buttons left to push. The gears chew on time. Life is the pulp left after the juice has been extracted. Love is the dress I never wore. Because I was afraid to try it on.

Lost. Only in that abstract sense. No one there. The formula in sick repetitions. The prince in robes made of lead. We move. Through time more than places. Gardens of skin burgeoning with the venom of first kisses. Dead men in my basement. Demanding their funerals.

No one. Nothing. The triumph of alone. New year. The profound lie time is always telling. Change comes slow and ugly. Clown faces drawn on cardboard time machines. Smiling at us from inside their coffins.

All the dead things are alive as I go back. Fragile skyscrapers negotiate the moon. The earth in putrid Sundays. I was never there. I never left.

But it remembers me still.