Phantom Pain There was some mud dug out of his deep eyes, white skeleton always exo on him, always waning phantom: his restless dry mouth wandering edges for answers. Skin only finding Epsom, abandoned lots. Lost reels repeating our one scene: some smoke endless cigarettes while we drive along Ana Island. Red sun up at the stroke of Five, red light, whispered lips so narrow. I want to fold his bones back inside his flesh… I can’t be the one, pushing marrow so innocent and clean, too sensitive for touch. Phantom pain, I’ll rise with the sun, no contra’s clamor, cold lips’ impression.