commitment is an anchor
made up of sugar
in the midst of a foamy ocean
that cannot put a rein
on its tide
my fingers grab within their nets
all the hidden meanings
of folded pages and spilled ink,
yet they cannot save themselves
from the thick tangle
of old covers
this room eerily resembles
the bottom of a dry ocean,
all blue in its cellulose misery
and snobbish furniture:
am I doomed to a life of perpetual
moldy truths?
my neck is a musical carcass
of every song that's ever been born
to haunt and churn and crawl
into cells,then make them
crave a more melodious
fall
this book is a castle,
my skin is a tapestry,
the sky is lost
behind the ceiling
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