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.