So much is open ended. A giant Santa’s skirt buttoned

with glass, the hands of the pupetteer dominatrix,

a strange god wrapped in wet tooth enamel, there

it will only hurt for a moment, if only there. It will

be put in a traffic light box; my life began in a storybook

in Borges’ imaginary library, Bruges De La Mort, the sequel?

The reading room is scratched with glass notes, drawn

with the beginnings of composition. but the patrons aren’t

much for it, the livid nosed listen not to hear, self contained,

they stuff themselves in areas with golden thimbles. Am

I really an esperanto hush in the magnetic symmetries?

A happenstance subtitle in William Shatner’s 'Incubus”?

For three knights I have been able to sleep without

thoughts of disorder, or thoughts of thunder, battle.

i mistrust this. Am I a telegraph to an eternal damsel

in distress, her fortune cookie broken by

a one armed man?