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.