Over the whisper of end static I continue to sink into the long weight Of riverine notes where desire hammers Each taut string inside the black box Of these flights that your fingers take Across ribbed piano keys of my chest.

I firmly believe that one must do something that scares them everyday

What is scarier than facing Your own face in the mirror After a night of deep sleep?

Stagnant hours were written down In your bones, which will, perhaps, Never find the cage in a museum, Into which other spirit-quickened Bones will peer at, to read the verdict Handed down to them at the end of time.

This knowledge turns you away From the thread bareness of yourself, This knowledge that nothing survives Of a life, as it is made and unmade, Except the riverstone of love.

She gazes out of less than a fistful of color, Amused at the irony of being viewed And letting herself viewed through A piece of clear glass stuck on a box of trapped light, Amused at this trace of a trace she would leave On a day’s door, this print of a hand, which usually She dips into water, but which somehow got daubed With paint.

He in passing, a tourist, would look at this Nailed to a wall, and unable to read the language, The script foreign, would based on the barometer Of his own weather, thus report this sighting:

“I saw a woman. She must be a dear saint. I saw a woman. She surely ate the souls of men.”