To say that vision is fleeting is to
miss the point, to swipe the deck with your tongue,
to hear the sounds of a dead man come to,
to predict newness in songs well past sung:
This isn't a critique– it's confession;
I bear my soul just like anyone else–
we talk in twoness / communication
where the forked tongue flatters, flutters and swells:
Learning to be what you should need to be
is a disillusionment we all need,
and I'll be there after to pacify
the sounds of life turned shards and and promptly hid:
Under beds, where dust and dander conflate
and my two sore eyes turn hands and turn feet.