Am I a good enough author
to write you into my life
(or am i trying vainly to write you out of
a script that was always yours)

(the sub-continent years are a sub-textual, semi conscious
layer of me now...
projections and mirror images
collapse back into themselves
wrought with simulacra
we ravage whatever point of contact
dies between us)

Remember the shotgun weddings and
happy endings?
The gilded gloss
The spines rot out of classics somewhere in the
haunted library
of my empty ancestors

(sell the silver
sell the gold
Empty the
Tome)