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
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?