What
John Freeman
are those faceless voices
who infiltrate the border from nowhere
with messages incoherent and urgent
phosphorous shadows with no bodies
who swerve in and out of the visible spectrum
at the farthest edges of the eyes
fingerless touches
who tease arm hairs as they tap in codes
that race like shock waves up the nerves’ wires
all night they lure me through my window
to chase winking eyes that shimmer like foxfire
we slip through oak groves
up and down stairs of Escher
hallways that wrench
free of space they stalk me from wrong angles
back through dry creek beds
where bony roots curl
i almost glimpse their silhouettes
in the no man’s land that drifts
between waking and sleep
where doors bang and I cry out
it’s only the wind
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