The Intercepted Missive
I woke as my own pronoun being swept
into a gutter. A silhouette on the wind stuck to
the moth’s rigid banners.
Dear Beginning of a Plural Blur,
have you watched the mountain dwindle?
Have you separated houses of flame from houses
of smoke?
Nobody lives in your mouth. They drowned in your homogeneous
vat.
Nobody floats. Nobody can burn down the stranger’s
hut.
Dear Fire, Dear Meat, stand inside my circle
of ink. Stand inside my bandaged mouth. I am not
your flagship.
Dear Gunsmith’s Notebook, I am your body’s
recipe. My life is a flat stone. Nobody will toast
the robbers as they ride into the colorless flame
of language.