Unbent and uncowed
and feathered to darker richness, you lie quivered in sleep,
the sleep of angels dreaming of fat-handed bullies, their
silver shore receding,
pleading. You snap the grips.
The tremolo of the hurtling car whistles your ear
as the winding core tightens — you bluing
for want of oxygen and moisture.
I have no home save this clothing and the
witness to collapse, her beckoning eyes
beneath cowls. I am mortgaged of breath —
I have no breath
but for scant slivers of unfiltered quiet,
the breaks between voices,
a silent fissure in the floorboards
under the home —
and yes, anybody can scream but the ghosts
pardon nothing with their blanknesses —
lodged in small spaces between window panes, under eaves
and thicknesses of unwelcome, they leave me no choice,
I leave with no choice,
hands flickering like candles. I give up
and blow out this very instant
and start, once again, pulling and signifying.