A pile of human teeth,
that which does not belong to itself but to the night and the moon
and the lock and the hook, that which once did belong to itself,
or to me,
a murmur and little more,
something you shake in the hope that answers to the questions
you want or some reasons you've yet to find
will come falling out,
an inhabitant in a house that becomes a crime scene during their absence and they cannot be an eyewitness,
she who wanders along the beach by the sea,
in search of shells,
to listen in for the sound of old echoes,
the unreal, suspended, irrelevant,
the night-time fragments leftover after
daylight gets its teeth in,
a rule-****** in asymmetrical glasses,
one of a family of confused clowns, juggling dreams
that were once in trees, struggling
and underestimating distance,
a cracked window in November that seems out of place,
a Tuesday afternoon, and specifically not a Friday sunse
or Sunday dawning,
a wishful **** belonging in the boneyard,
housing an ocean of unspeakables in
attic mind,
greenhouse heart,
cavern mouth full of sea,
the container of many unspeakables,
a cup, profoundly sad for being always a touch too empty,
contained inside a small glass bottle,
a paperweight.
This poem is comprised of the various things that I have compared myself to in metaphor in poems I have written in the past.