This night, is dead, and not one soul’s in sight.

Fogs, like the graveyard, in these dying streets,

and not one single zombie who I’d like to meet.

I carve into a park, and walk into a mirror pond.

Orange frost, rises atop, a black, shallow muck;

A crest, so thin, so bright that it tricks the eyes;

were it not for the sweat, I’d swear this was ice.

Ripples pull from behind a cattail. I feel a sense

which few would believe, as a tug to my leg lets

me know, as it swims slowly past me with more

it grows–I’ll be undone if I let this go–this I know.

Could I be so special, I ask my mind; of that, am

I obsessed, as my tapes rewind: Neon alligators,

all around, this mirror lake, held in my hand and,

could only I see the reflection, I would be statue.