Your head is a landscape revised by culm
and tire smoke, you stare through the window
as though words will appear, heraldic and from nowhere.
Light as a paper bag, you amble about town
waiting for the wind to take hold.
You profess the body is a cello, and the moon the eye by which you see.
You maintain your ancestors were barbarians,
that the tongue can out-leverage a crowbar.
You ascertain the weather with a fork
and an empty bottle of port.
Moths sleep under the mattresses of your eyelids.
You testify to wolves inhabiting your bones at night.
You claim the dead speak through you.
Crows circle your house like tiny hurricanes.
Saplings take root in your gutters.
Your own voice frightens you.
You're a liar, a thief. You're vain.
You believe you can extract silence from a stone.
You contend the friction between pen and paper
creates light. You believe the darkness
is larger than any space can hold.