in the marbled reception hall, i received a three band gold
ring, from mark, a token of esteem, running through ghost
closet locker rooms, to hide from peter, who has fallen to
the old cold stone floor, wheezing and emitting a seemingly
endless flow of ectoplasmic white goo from ears and mouth.
a wind rushes through hall, whistles as it breezes through
the narrow slits in the green locker doors, i hide in one
of these, no. 13.
barely concealed but hopeful
i will climb this high wall
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