driving from there to there there were
shadows on the castle, my splinterless foot-- holed
pressed on the pedal light dripped
down the dreamcatch feather
hanging, the rectangle mirror watching
my back-- no!-- gaping: fool, trickster
(the objects closer than they appear the objects
in the blind spots):
but how low, how beautiful still the light
dripped down the feather's blue its blue fading
as blue will
fade from creatures put in drawers
full of paper spare screws time
before the feather I was pulling apart
a piece of cotton warming oil, filling
a woman's ear full
with sweet then filling
her ear with cotton like burial
who's there she asked my moving lips
tell her
tell her
I am singing who I am
singing high to reach the jar on the high shelf
inside a Morphos flitting blue against glass
and then I am calling
where are you the woman
her ear full of cotton
needles in answers here
her silver goes digging
in skin in time
my throat curls
on itself--
like sign language
fingers who make
the letter e
someone should tell the story--
the story which came before
tweezing the sliver the story before
Morphos heaves in the jar
the story for which
the splinter is the relic to hold
at times the story which can not be forgotten
