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ten thousand years I’ve slumbered in your sins,
that ancient everlasting Now, perdition’s grasp
a bright insecticidal blue that splits
the night like boiling brass.

i promise you that i am not a wolf.

i made my chrysalis beside your hearth,
they taught me all the wisdom of the world—
that lowly larval slime they taught is dead,
and all the words of spirit long since ash.

and when you find my molt tomorrow
you’ll see my arms are ten feet long

i wonder if they’d mourn the me you knew,
that saintly little kid, the off-brand meat.
i used the choicest cuts to feed my young.
his gristle guards my nest against the cold.

i am the flesh
i am its shade

it’s all a joke, of course. it’s still just me,
the soul borne forth by endless frothing churn
with sharpie stains from all the butcher’s marks
and all the scars to prove my vintage grade.

it’s not quite mint condition, but it fits nice in my cube

they took down all the mirrors in the house
the day before they cut me out the kiln
that house has long since gone to dust
and yet my face is still a great unknown.

there’s something in the air

it’s dark in this decrepit bathroom now
a single silvered sheet upon the floor
and i can see my breath

and when i call your name

it’s just my voice that echoes back.