Every movement of his eyes
Was a cozenage—
A way to survey the world
Without dilating his pupils
Enough to share his thoughts.

I ran myself to the ground,
Desperate to uncover
What it was those eyelashes
Framed, sub rosa—

And now I walk the earth
On unstable fissures--
Waiting for the secret
That is not mine
To become my downfall.

She was a torn tapestry,
A picture of indecision
As her life hang
In the balance—
A decorative plate,
Watching itself shatter
In the dormant hallway—

Tattoos on the inside
Of my eyelids;
I saw the words
Every day—
How come I still
Never listened?

There was not much
Color left in me—
My cheeks were sullen,
Translucent in the sun--
And my hands seemed
To be incapable
Of any and all things.

I sat in despondency,
Letting my skin turn
To the muffled grey
Of radio waves
And confused voices.

Where was I?

I was working toward
The tide that had
Already pulled backwards,
Away from my feet—
And would not swell again
Until my legs had long
Stopped working.

I am buried in sand
On a littered beach,
Surrounded by the
Plastic waste
Of my past discrepancies.

I imagined that once I was surrounded
By hills of green felt and descending
Fog, that I would find the words
Settle on my tongue—
My hand would feel sure,
Clenched around a pencil,
And soft atop keys--
But I also knew, that I might
Just sit there, framed by the misted
Windows, limned in condensation,
And stare at the words that would not form.