grace and dignity (self-maintenance)

 



i am up to a rich



work without ghosts—



i absolutely cannot trust



my follicles’ growth-in



 



straight. i squint by



the mirror, i grind



my teeth, they clack wise at



me, let me know.



 



i am well versed in how



water goes, whenever



i may see a faucet. the sink



cracks light and says *it’s*



*the mirror.* the sink and



 



i, really, are far nobler—we know



only the thrill of making



marks on the wall. lines,



and the taking of them. the work of



growing in—the sink



 



laughs—focal lines dance



in the creases, the all-over, i



give it up. it warms me, and



tastes sweet. fever, sweet—



 



the light is harsh,



linear. i have been standing



here a long time. it is



looking at myself grown



down sharp, this light.



 



it cuts narrow to me,



bound to swell towards some



eruption. my space to grow



lines straight seems now



a crack of the light. just.



 



i believed i was arrogant. i cannot



follow. i lay my eyes down



the counter, flat.