Veins collapse like bridges.
Float like sea kelp.

What other business do they have
but to worry their skin of old bananas?

This secret war. So private you dare whisper it.
But you will reveal or conceal everything.

Words are mongrels anyway. Half assed attempts
or whatever is the opposite of otherwise.

First and foremost words are ghosts.
Hovering like shrugged ideas.

Like the whisper of a foreign city that aches in you.

Veins, secrets, wars...
unraveling in the shocking end
of the last sentence on the page.