By Peter Halstead

I function on belief.
I’m otherwise a ghost
Of me, my own thief.

Magazines erase
Me; my life their boast.
Friends dispute my face,

Trust my PR more
Than me. Who toasts
Me? Strangers in a store.

I dream of dark;
Of ordinary disguise,
And other people’s doors.

My acts seem matter-of-factly
Lies; I’m a star to every bark,
But in just whose seas, exactly?