In the airs that end with silence
in the tinctures of incoherent distance
and checkerboard linoleum floors of time
I think of you squirming
like a nude-pink worm on a hook
or in a bistro writing on a napkin
your words and your thoughts
stretched taut scrutinizing
pretty boys
assessing perfumes and smoke rings

and I see myself
in front of a wall-length mirror
a photograph of sorrow
my soft beingness
pitiable in a room
of resounding volume
hoping that you dont ask me for words
rather rely on my tongue-tied gestures
i am a sad endless aria
i hope my enemies go blind.