*Vanishing act*

A young girl in a skirt
swings from a fire ring.

The stretchy desert environment
looks up at her
and she pretends to deny
it will overtake her.

To think that you chose to live here
where the rose rolled its head
like a bowling ball in protest.

“It smelled rancid,” he said,
and gazed in vain into a mirror
made of cactus and sand.

You and I were so inspired back then
and it seems as if the haze
has shelved us in with the frozen foods.

Now my hands shake and I am so afraid
you will move away.

“That’s how it is,” said the girl,
her hair fallen over a sunken cheek.

So I hold on to her and she questions me:
“Have the orange and blue rings
vanished yet? Because when I look at them
they do not really seem to be there.”

I laugh and so does she,
and gently I tug at some deformed icy loop.

In my head
she will not stop humming
goodbye