I am walking behind
myself kicking up dirt
to bury my shadow,
to bury the shade
I cannot have. It is a
self-portrait. It is vanitas,
complete with rot.
I used to try and write
my name on your bones.
Can you reach inside
the lining? Now that
there is no place for hands.

.

When I’m drunk enough
to cry you a song I piss
holy water on the burning
bush until the gasoline
turns to wine.

.

I hold my fingers
in the flame, 
but the iron
will not take form.
The hammer blows
only steal resolve.
This deformity is crude,
I no longer fit inside you.
My knives are slick
but they will not sharpen
your wounds or cut
the sky into shade.

.

I feel the siren’s knives whisper
behind my back. If I close
one eye will I still be looking
for you? I am ready to go
down with the ship;
there is grace in the
pounding of the sea.
Whose anchor are you tied to?
Will it slip when the storm
shakes the dead. I am
only breathing while the
rocks gather strength.

.