It was he: master of the nondramatic
handshake, nonfunctioning plumage,
and reasonless flicks of the tongue.
He was a fan of asocial sunset parties
and slick, adamant monotheism.
He was known to drag his eyelids.
No one sniffed when he parceled
out a spit of land for his dreams and lunged
for the kindest security he could find,
a maiden of gray habits and uniform grins.
Together, they invented wild secrets
as they quietly crept into small clocks.
(from Flickr: One year, two perspectives. This image is part of a 365(+1) project, my friend Tilo and I are working on. If you want to see more, check out our website zweisichtig.de.
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Writing for Ghosts 