My nails are weighted with transparency.
Though you touch each luminous mute syllable,
I know I am not anything you can name.
Surfaces flicker in your fist,
Glow, being irretrievable.
Each week I blow out rows of wax prisons.
Then in the darkness there’s your ear’s definition
And your pupil’s defiance, there’s the art
Of your tenderness after and candor before
Each fresh annihilation . . .
. . . from which I surge pinpointed, exalted, eccentric,
Knowing I am not anything you can name.
If something precise and painful in your gaze
Catches at fugitive cinders, clasps
Flame within flame,
It’s yours — all the hurt which you recognize.