All I have are words —
egg shells & feathers,
hollow bones, empty nests —
to give you, numbingly,
the endless iconography,
litany/liturgy of love & loss,
sad little hellish dreamworld
I less inhabit than wear
around me tight as snakeskin.
Take the scar on my rib,
take my left thumb
for all that is beyond grasping,
take my right eye made of mud
and amber flecks, with but one
could my world be any flatter?
