by 

self-portrait as god holding the dead in his palms

here's a girl who burned a house before it could burn her /

here's a boy / more sure of his godliness than i am of mine /

here's a child / a ripple of hunger caught in a good surprise

and i’m the roundness of all of them consuming / husks /

& the hubbub / i am as erased & as doorless / as a leaf in

a windless dream that stays moving / moving // i’m sorry

i tell them / death was just a rhetoric / in the blued bedlam /

of the unbroken eye / no they couldn't understand the seamless

water / they needed / the tides /  yesyes / they needed the /

tides / or maybe i did // here lies a hummingbird eating its

own viscera / to produce a sound you might think a song /

maybe i'm the song / & / they / the voice i come from /

what they don't understand is that i’m subterranean / carried

like sugar on an ant’s back / i can’t carry myself // here's

the withs & the withouts / ands & ors / oarless boats

/ & boatless oars / & the chill / the crippling wingless chill

clotting on an operating table / no one comes to save her /

no / no one comes / later / i kiss the filth in my palms /

& wash my hands / forever // sometimes i ask myself / if life

is reciprocal / why not death? / how when everyone leaves /

only i remain / & the painfully insipid aftertaste / i can't wash

off my hands / & when / like you / i try to listen to myself / there

is no whisper no vibration / only a distant dream / of a promise

of embrace / that never fulfills itself / a promise so terribly

magnified / i can't recognise its face anymore // it is good to die