John Freeman

are those faceless voices
            who infiltrate the border from nowhere
                  with messages incoherent and urgent
        phosphorous shadows with no bodies
            who swerve in and out of the visible spectrum
                  at the farthest edges of the eyes
        fingerless touches
            who tease arm hairs as they tap in codes
                  that race like shock waves up the nerves’ wires

        all night they lure me through my window
to chase winking eyes that shimmer like foxfire
      we slip through oak groves
    up and down stairs of Escher
        hallways that wrench
      free of space they stalk me from wrong angles
back through dry creek beds
    where bony roots curl

i almost glimpse their silhouettes
        in the no man’s land that drifts
between waking and sleep
        where doors bang and I cry out
              it’s only the wind

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