[The Sleepers]

In a foreign landscape, we are ghosts entering the nights séance capture what is still unaccounted, immigration beads, the flags of paper still swathed in wax seal and twine. They speak to us through documents and deeds. In the dust there are everlasting notes. You smell them on the old streets. One explosion after another to draw you out of existence. I show you blood on my lip, but this dried quickly. Resembles salt of memory and desire. You were my promise. Lips that gave everything as your mouth moving across my body and warmth presiding over. Second pilgrim of cold: enter dead land, as they send mysterious chill. Some you hide, others you hate you use you until they change us like gunpowder the black, exists so you can taste it just a bowl of burned rice or was it the cave offering a place in the stones to sleep on the rough earth pulling the ground around you. What does it mean to sleep like a dog without a blanket.