forthcoming—a red balloon inflating,
two doves that coo Adieu, Adieu, a rabbit
hatless but polite, a dignified parade of frogs,
otters roiling in a flowing carpet—
slippery, all of it, most untrue but better for
each misprision. I say the word is dark, but
I mean world, and by dark I meant
let go—it hurts, this pressure, how my arms bruise
over and then bloom pink and clear again.
Very the pain, or verify—either way,
eyes see things differently afterwards,
drowning seems drawing, death made dearth,
while homophones destroy me. You turn
ergo U-turn and terns cartwheel above, such
racket. What do I love—what’s lost, the words
eked out and etched into the window pane,
lucid in the breath, but gone again
once warmth recedes. I hang on to facsimile,
slim volumes stacked to form a ladder
to poetry—wait, I meant poverty.