Revised Version

I move my fingers

In broad circles
–both forward and back
along hairlines,
across bruises,
over the hairline cracks
of porcelain memory.

I smooth out the bud vase
of a heart,
the cold hands of death,
the glassy throat of a banshee,
stuffed with silence,
that lies lifeless in a forged, violet room
under spotlights
and funeral flowers.

A velvet rope,
tear-streaked portraits,
arms knotted in uneasy embrace.
A fur-lined hood wrapped ’round
the drooping face of winter—
it sinks deep
and scurries when the switch flips on.

Peel off the top,
listen to the bubbles rise,
as I flatten like the polished rock
of a headstone.

I give you nothing
but the tide-mark on your sleeve,
the smile of fresh dew on your nose,
a laugh or two,
as my fingers tire.

I will see the green glow
of an exit sign,
and I will disappear
like smoke thinning under the blunt light
of an uninvited dawn.