tumbling one after the other,
the ghosts are spiralling out of control.
although they take various shapes,
I see mostly octahedrons-
maybe the mathematician in me
cannot escape geometry.
cooling blood heats up in no time
as concrete shapes takes the place of everchanging ones.
what is there to fear?
the self, I think, but only for a moment.
my toes curl, and uncurl
as I let go of the geometrical ghosts-
out of sight, sending them hurtling to far away land.
"turning my back, I go back to cooking, slicing onions"