I’m an average name
behind eyes,
a cylindrical laugh in the thighs,
I simmer and boil and decline,
a plane crash swooped with a spine,
or a flight of a wing
intertwined
the cure in my blood
is the balm,
obtained from the sun when it’s calm
some of us are lucky that way,
to be blissfully and partially dead,
to explain all you are to your head,
and believe all the lies you’ve been fed
I am three times the number of planets,
you are all of the galaxies naked,
I am you and you tend to be me on your good days,
I am you when I’m feeling like Wednesday,
or Odin,
or Mercury—
which translates to poetry
which is back to the end
of my average name,
and the way that I conjure up nothing
and pretend that I matter,
when you matter the most of them all
I am three minus three plus a million,
my abstraction is embossed pedophilia
from a garden of bruises, vermillion
I am talking my way past the echoes,
of all of the men and the women that severed,
myself from myself from my essence,
I can see the layers undressing,
and I’m witness to this tiny blessing
