You’re not to whom it may concern
but whom could make an opening in him
like the smoke in this language
I intrude upon while he, blubbering
of heart, was all too tucked
inside the minus signs
I strung around my neck
until I could no longer
hold my head up to look at you,
the blackout in me jingling.
He of dog leash, of muzzle,
climbing in reverse, a thief
through my cartoon window.
I found him like I find everything –
on my way home from the euphemism
on the wrong side of town,
the mouth inside of brick
where night can go on being night
until it finally falls asleep
inside some other animal’s ambition.
That’s where I buried the clocks,
in case you’re wondering, the coils
inside them stammered. The nightingales
are busy inventing a suitable anthem for my face
as I wipe it clean of every him
inside that oubliette. And how easy
it is to fall inside of falling,
my spit inside of him
inside of him makes me you,
a double preposition, a corridor
in briefly and stumble into birdcall,
the mind outside the mind in me.