Narcissus

The body near the screen tests itself, rests on itself, akimbo as windowcurtains pinned

back, just a touch, green kimono cinched in pale rope, as one might flinch if

pressed into soul’s glinting weight. Quick now, quick, those little lamps

have all burned down, now your blue dune of breastbone isn’t

seen except as remembered, and I will not sleep turned

in here, will not sleep anyplace else than curled in

streams panned with gold and no, this day is no

such, pinching into its vise, steadies itself for

night’s oiled blade, pillow-cold,

inevitable, not this twisting,

not I-who-cut-out,

not I-who-knew-

who-sang-

I.