The Dancers
It is because I fear to wake them behind the bolted door of dreams.
The starving eyes, the fragile ribs, hollow gourds on Shiva's belt. They dance as he dances upon the withered plain.
It is because I fear to name them. The night whispers their names, calling their twisted faces to me.
Will you hide with me, fornicating with the future between the pages full-color ads?
Here they have no names. They are shadows of rags, shifting dots on the television screen, dancing, dancing.