there are many you's
i escape from, noting how each globe, how each curve defines
the moment when i am caught: an inferno of masked candles soggy in the wind,
my vision too caught up in the next page, not focusing on what's before me
right now. because right now is mismatched jewellery, rusting chunks of metal
cobbled together from a scrapyard. i say this, believing i confront
my inner shadow, believing that all can become precious
in its own sense
of oceans spread apart
between my fingertips.
in the rush of soil
and in the stories
you say i run away, always run away, mind devoted to the syntax of pleasure,
to the reasoning of resonance in silver, to the eyes wide shut in the morning
sensation of not wanting to wake up, but slowly finding
bone-white china locked away
in my cupboard.
against a triplet.