I can sense
without seeing
my shadow
in here with me—
not helping, but simply
idly sipping coffee
in a spare Ikea
kitchen chair and
staring our the window
while I sit across
the table and winnow,
by curving lines of light,
the weapons he uses
to hold me accountable
and thrust my ego
flush against the wall.
I know this because
I can feel his presence—
but only as
that warm dark absence
that prods imaginations
to attend to concealed things
and which makes,
through his unreal-
yet-substantive scrim
this illumination of my
waking thoughts'
strangest inversions possible.
