This is all that’s left.
This. This head,

a prattling tongue.
It flaps and only memory

gives it voice.
There is a kind of looking that kills,

and I’ve got it.
Suiting, as my heart is gone;

my limbs and all of their deeds,
my lungs.

It confirms the dead,
as your tradition of baptism confirms a life.

The spectrum arrives at my soul
where it dies

to tell you.
I have come

to speak of the dead
in exchange for this.






Did I trust her?
Inside the many

voices, I gave song
to one who felt himself

envious and perfect
in her realm, and so he looked.

This is the song.

Listen, and lose your limbs.

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