Reversing a jiffy

Then I see myself walking backwards

around the corner,

shop window guards rolling up

when they should roll down,

birds flapping feet first towards the ground,

clouds dispersing, smiles dropping back

to resting faces.

And you on the hill, calling down the constellations.

Propaganda

Red sweeps across the heavily veined

fingers clutching tightly

at the bulbous purple node;

a ruby mass fails to plug the seam

that widens with each breath.

The stain soaks deep

into the carpet fibers,

already building its resistance to being cleaned.

A perpetual reminder,

unless covered by a rug

so full of patterns that the looker

feels nauseated if their gaze lingers.

But, of course,

even so garish a distraction

is preferable to the plans

lurking beneath it.

So they say.