new ghosts to look at

your new way of talking does nothing for me - sure I can conform and match its cadence, its words, its structure - but it has transformed me into a ghost. I want to go back to the old way - where things were comfortable, and time had yet to mould it in ways that I would never have expected, could never have anticipated. brick me up where I sleep into a new room. sure I too have transformed and now go through the countryside winning converts - but this just gives me new ghosts to look at. your new way of looking is peeling me away - sure I can stare and avoid and glare my gaze - but its stripped me into shivering ribbons. frantic for someone to recognize the need for reassembly. I am planning my breakout. I invented a new type of currency that I can buy souls with. I am the sole keeper of the vaults and by the time anyone knows where to look to find them - the landscape will have long since moved on. I invented a new type of movement - you can do it without seeing. your ghosts fall away with the sun. early hominids murmuring. birds with teeth engaged in mating dances. drawing diagrams by candlelight is supposed to wreck your vision. the one year we didn't cut back the hedges and vines. my hand on your graph paper in the candlelight. the crack in the concrete that we watered and fertilized and later I crawled into to leave my resume. one knife in the ghost.