yellow & green, black-lashed and aren’t I spread from margin to margin a
connect-the-dots of word, water, earth, blood a thumbprint in the upper corner
identified by this whorl as that woman who isn’t a doppelganger but sheaves of
self while I reflect craters, aspects of moon-flecks in her eye as stars circle and
close in on a head a body a lack of that scattering which radio-signals tell you is
the soul, spirit, ghost—an ink line with two speckles, ends standing in for the
curve of kosmos, the flat of horizon, the break of cloud above my up-stretched
hand and no star on my eyebrow it’s been pulled into the black of temple, that
which whirls at the apex biting the indecision, the center of that who I know I am
not and plunder continuously in search of this splinter