I am an artist who loves lines.
Vanitas at the speed of light he turned no further were we once an inviolate sorrow, an eyeful of apologies, too quick, or late enough in the instant to recoil from absence the consensus of cells that felt you leave with them as I consent to owe you, I owned who, I sang you my listening my lyric my Eurydice—forge the splash of my signature across any song any shade there mouths, the old gods—silt-handed with gossip still and holding their ends from the end as in the speed of sound she went free
Vanitas “I was named so similar others echo like yours spells through back against the flash of an origin that means something, not a man held it and instead as a stain in a landscape is shallow, it was shallow in the depth of the time it was given, and it called.”
Vanitas And when it had done explaining the dream—reached me, wordless beside the morning.
Vanitas
what joy can error
disprove down to source
its long life in the mirror To myself last night I said my own name
to hear my voice
sound like someone
stripped of choice like a knife
agleam with a few eyes
Sheathe it now your body must do where I
never thought to close, could open the open mirror’s
single eye its radiant mouth
listening to neither side of it equal
a lie, now where faces have no back
