What vermin lie molting
in recessed corners; layered,
aging cloth, rusty sabres?
Doors unlock to parade
apparitions thought dead-dust.
Howling persists behind locked doors;
awaiting that day the dead-bolt lives.
How many more doors?
How many piles? Fleeting faces of phallic
frenzy; faded visages brandishing shame?
How many awakenings?
The past lives through a rear-view mirror.