clean, now, of your diaries;
sun cut, singed through the brume
pure and guiltless as a virus, white
without a needle eye or task to
lay into your inner brides, the bent
to disturb your wealth of fruit skins
or run my pathos through the calculus
and see my dimples rise as underlings
to terrorize your pond face, scold its careful
glass with frost or lunge into your acquiescence,
the satin cinch for your panoplies,
to make pillows for my wreck.
what am i when i’ve no effigy for doubt,
no biorhythms to sicken with childish bellows from my song?
there is no dormant eggshell to gather up this loss
and nothing left from which to birth;
if i cannot be of something else,
then nothing will become me.