Speaking of the Dead

Unsure to whom to speak
we linger in the hallway,
padding the carpet with our heavy feet.

Inside, encrypted versions of our former selves
perform the perfect souffle.

I levitate the hatstand.
In theory I could leave,
but what comes out is like a language
only twisted, not our own.
We try to understand in objects:
spoons, cups, unlocked doors.
"No-one listens," we complain,
log on to check our mail
to find that all accounts are hacked,
avatars we spent ten years maintaining
now just floating icons; dead-end servers.

We shuffle at the window in the hall.
The city's trying to get in.
A cloud of brick-dust implicates the past;
the sound of engines stalling.

"THIS is not a political act," I manage,
but the blind men have already turned away.