You've emptied yourself into this cup/ this poem// Drink me/ you say// Drain each lie that i tell/ you insist// All the scars have finished their encore/ & all you hear now are the echoes of what once was// The steeple holds you from the ground/ but your hand does not touch heaven/ no matter how high your prayers reach// So you've dug yourself this small hole/ in the proofread body of this work/ & buried the detritus that clambered out of the sea in your flesh/ in the enjambment of each metaphor// You want/ no/ you need to touch my skin/ to be sure you still exist// You've gazed into my eyes/ & you did not see yourself there// Which is fine/ my eyes were never meant to see ghosts/ & your hopes are cold ash/ on my head// I rub the soot all over my skin/ & like the prophet/ scream: Ichabod!/ The glory has disappeared from my sight!//
