If  gold, your figure as mirror on the ground is

After Alejandra Pizarnik, after Fernando Pessoa


Comic screen to change what came to notice           Even though sky
at first was the same blank slate     So literal. The value of  it

You make your own lion’s teeth sink in, slowly

                                                    The insects claim you don’t belong here then bite & bite

                                                    Virtue the undulant yards as penance
Hordes of animals without teeth crash the window in a dream & it means you are not hungry enough

                                                                                    The capuchin stays silent in the void

                                                                               You feel the sun of  unknown experiments

Once a choice comes to full & the act carries the joy of struggle                       The winter mother
severs only a chance at restarting. Could you sorrow

the one unchosen thing infinitely so it feels occasional, the act is itself

              If  I write a texture I could make it stucco like childhood
              Aloe or cactus spines                      To cut is to heal

              the rough of a cut             All dark blue against good skin like leather

Imagine the root of oppositional archetypes Next to me chrysanthemums the rust of  blood when it dries but
in front of me So much blue & a broken white

I can’t see myself on purpose

                                   What rocks itself  out of  time on a wingbeat Is not a name or a silence

                                    As in sanity’s
                                    meager gestures. Downriver, the unruly sound turned
                                    C-shaped / Real secrets as fragrant and familiar as what’s under the smoke

                                                                                                        I stand next to the rocks
                Where you choose to return without choosing / Some black, some silver

                The lines of ash & passage A neon swig of enlightenment

Don’t be exceptional in this false.
All fluent in nothing, hiding where your debt grows

Be aggressive or do not mind, you say

I feel like a chicken after boiling Or like you do now — smooth from the pain

                                            (I love how you love promises because they are lies)
                                            (I love the honesty of cheap rings)

             Like a ripened plum or two, pitted — Now a flat middle ground, now another
             interior to hold the ruin

Your hair grows in eighths on alternate days but you pretend not to count What rains in it
What grandiose adornment hasn’t happened but will happen Also a lie — in color

The grunting you hear on the other side of the wall might be music Or the disaster of a concrete floor

The western cities, the eastern cities / that inscrutable skin I chose
The high ground of resurrection Discursive — 
falling soft / I witness the guilt planted for others

I practice by moving my legs I am a bracket
You are the conquering seawall

Nothing earth about you except what clean is visible Also your hands