maybe it's the absence of cursive
of the curl in my own voice twisted up the side
of a cello's moan.
maybe it's that millisecond rise and fall that
keeps me breathing maybe it's what
constructs that glass separation—that film
that is between me and such hungry heat.
i'm still singing here as a man who has no
skin, who has a jingle in his bones, who has
silverware stuck in his hands and a pearl
plate shattered at his feet.
(maybe a flowerpot is a destiny, maybe
a stranger's pat on the head is all the
food i need to keeponsinging.)
