Her bones are made from the chill of hearing other sounds—

the elegant mirror
with its hourglass edge,
the courage to erupt
into chaotic laughter
left via the poem,

the poem,

the poem
haunts the back of my eyelids.

It's made from faltering
clock ticks, tongue clicking
in round roughness, mouth
morose and mutating;

is versatile,

the poem is innocent
but for its hypersensitive zen;

she misspells 'sex'
spells it backwards,

pens it in magnetic lettering
on the refrigerator,

she thinks that when
her legs bend inward
it means she is taking shape,


release is the poem,
unwritten, words
hungry at the back of the
throat for her silent monologue,

a monopoly of
undercurrents, she is
ashamed to show her face
in the circumference
of this same circle.

She leaves her edge,
like a second skin on the
back porch of the
brick building where
someone else's kiss lingers,

the wisteria
hanging southward
like some unspoken
declaration of wholeness.

The poem
moves through her
like a blood stream,

the poem,

men can see the poem
in her eyes.

Frailty is catching, and
she is succumbing to her own
undertow, her own flared
nostril, her own resplendent

a canon; the poem,

the poem.