someday we'll be
cut in half and sorted,
we grow eager
to head our killers
off at the pass,
and so we hack
at our selves until we're
unzipped snippets—
parts of parts, stuffed
into glove compartments,
shorn of our edges,
locked in the dark.
We think: the more
we're scattered
the harder we'll be
to locate—
and therefore,
the more likely we are
to be found
a commodity.
The ghostlier,
somehow, the more
substantial;
the barer the better.
Our treasure
is our lack.
