memory of how you came
to recognize the seedling nature of the shaking
through seizures, aroused by sporadic silver intrusions-
curtain maker flees.
I became you
one night, singing songs at dark, monotone
prayers of transcendence
vibrating behind eyesockets,
writing themselves, and then forgotten.
butterfly, with wings of splendor and a black
heart, living in a garden of
dark flowers. Pressing your
lips to the same gray rose who pushed you away
moment before, subsisting on the blood of martyrs-
airborne and whaling, like sonic doves.
maker, one who has yet to tread soil as
pure as that which buries you,
streaked your skin with the
dust of falsehood, and lied directly into your
with her kiss.
There is no
curtain to billow in the wind,
only the dry, pale tongues of your touch and
of absence, imitating the substance, the physical
existence of you.