You are pallid,
you are losing blood and life.
You stop a cab.
The driver peers into his rearview mirror.
You are not there.
You leave a sword on the back seat
in lieu of the fare.
You become a trickle of holy water,
a yellow aircraft,
a toy train.
You remove the mask,
your pallid dream.
You serve breakfast to Kung Jiang
with his long, aged fingers.
You write love letters
in Minoan script
and leave them on the kitchen table.