Wednesday, September 7, 2022


When I write, it's like 
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.