I am the hollow stone crying you a river.
I am the sheet-white ghost entombed within
the telltale heart. Over my drifting
billows rise black suns.

There is a puddle at my feet.
I am the last castrated spore of
self-realization. Also the calm

broken tide, unable to wet its lips.

And even the spatters of incoherent
filth-brains scapegoating
on the mirror. Murder

and how to want to get away. Bumps
of white salt lines off your left shoulder.

I am snowflakes in an hourglass, like
melting sand at home. The penultimate
footstep of Azrael in the windshorn moor.

And also the decrepit teddy bear –

unstuffed and blind and course.

My twins are cirrostratus and silence
and my cry, like a banshee, shrill. I paint
in blood and latex; I cast no shadow. I am

the dismal realization
of one-way double-wide coffins in Narnia

and the masculinity of the pearl
and the curls adorning Adonis.

Where would I go if I left?


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