He sees himself in the third
Person
A curious construction of tissue
Cells, conduits
Systems

Is there a face
Underneath that hair
A man
Beneath those ideas

He is nothing out of
Context
The result of perceptions
More your ideas
Than his own

Would he exist
If you closed your eyes

The page contains him
When the world cannot
Flesh becomes words
A bit of soul in every hanging
Syllable
A death in every period

Your hand
Resting so delicately on his shoulder
Means everything

To him
Over the porcelain goddess
Evening
Hangs delicately
And open-endedly
Perplexed
And dawn never
Wonders

In absolute submission
To your grief
Or his relentless rage

Sour lips
Untouched
Dwindle

And desire leaves
The lonely echo
For all to hear
Save one.