Spectre

Spectre

With enough concentration,
the seer goes ghostly.

As you stare,
feel yourself turn transparent.
Your face is first to disintegrate.
The vanishing spreads down your shoulders,
your chest and arms dissolving
as a bubble’s glassy gleam thins and releases itself
back into air.

By now you are only legs,
but soon even these will slip away.
No shoes, no shadow,
no patch of land you are confined to.

You are the windowpane.
You are the wind inhabiting the fabric of the curtains.

Let yourself be opened.

Spectre

Spectre

Behind you,
the weird grey graffiti of shadow.
You loom
above yourself, outside yourself.
It's called
projection--casting your darkness
onto objects,
landscapes, people. The good news?
Project
is also a noun, at least when the stress
is placed
on the first syllable. The word leans
its weight
forward, prods you on, invites you
to wear
whatever magical clothes allow the work
to happen.