Black wig and grimebrown,
reach your hand to my hand.

Mimic a person (sooner and
sooner no one remembers) in

pretend interaction (if I could
color wry smiles I would

cover the world). Your old
dweller hobbles to mine,

withered from the silence.
We guess at the true age

of this era (graininess
invisible and anxious).

This is no old film.
Stuffed in sneakers, we act

through dilapidated cotton
(too far away, too tight a fit).

Let us breathe.

(originally published in The Globe Review, Summer 2023)