Because life's too short to blush, I keep my blood tucked in. I won't be mortified by what I drive or the flaccid vivacity of my last dinner party. I take my cue from statues posing only in their shoulder pads of snow: all January you can see them working on their granite tans. That I woke at an ungainly hour,
Many see a flutterby when they look into this
omniscience I see as a skinniness too densely drawn
or a mystery unhinged by its own symmetry, a twinning
I think of as a listener that thinks along
with me, fused in a tweed, a red herring-
bone weave in the dazzling darkness
and bleached afterness some see
as a necklace of brilliants curved in gift. As if!
A color visible only in ultra-
violet light or a source beyond mathematics I think
of as a second self, an underhum. Or thought. Till I saw
innocence tortured by a force
beyond kindness, an unconditional indifference
or wick for wickedness that wanted trauma dolls.
I tell this as a clock tells time but telling can’t diminish it
as clocks can’t dwindle time. Am I still alive?
Birds that sing behind a waterfall, horses kneeling
Christmas Eve are what others see in what I see
as us delivered up to this chill that searches me.