Between the glass and me
a central nerve of chronic realization is
singing beyond hearing-
haven to the dwell
and chapter to the sacrificing novelties.
Breach and be fulfilled.
Live loss and sway your fill.
A natural fear of abnormal possibilities
and credibly undermining mentors rend from me
these fingers of solitary encore.
Clenching sheets in fetal desperation,
I listen for inquiries of Sabbath
to comprehend the weeping ether of Saturn.
There are tears quenching the cloth
that smothers these mystics of calumny.
I can just barely hear their speaking obituary
somewhere between the glass and me.

Sometime before the glass and me,
I watched still-lifes in drooping eye-wells
dripping along the iodized Moon.
Reluctant in all
with identity crisis being
the true failing point of misery farce,
I replace the catacombing valor
from the cradling depart.
In her cliche'd arms
I thirst upon her hackneyed milk-
speaking tongues of stereotype
and gladly feeding through their ilk.
With white wind where
wayward watchers wrack in wild wills,
it could only sin within grieve sine dream.
I lie still and listen
for time to find my name's deceit
somewhere between the glass and me.