It would take jack-hammers
to find that other-self. Saw-shrieks,
elegies for taste—whiplash,
moan & scald. This body
is something Giacometti
sculpted: wax & molten steel,
the die-cast of night’s necessities.
Smaller, I beg you, smaller.
For fear my outline is neither
live nor dead, air dances electric
with broken ghosts. Cheeks
absent of color: lip after the bite.
|Sticky in autumn’s poplar, the voyeur,
who may or may not be me, sketches
the leaf’s cursive fall. Grasshoppers sleep
in amber. This could be feeling: not good,
but at least not hurt. I need spells & voodoo
to stop time. Close my eyes—bring me
willing things, orphans waiting open-armed
for needles, gravel-floored cellars & spiders
the size of fists. Underwater, you cannot hear
my favorite song: a mouth whispering
half my name, all the sheets turned down.