hearing, singing
in the distance:
despite what I imagine
to be your sturdy,
hollow hull
and those two fantastically
feminine, swirling-yet-
resolute, f-shaped ear holes,
I suppose you're
really nothing
like a skull—
or, for that matter,
an envelope
stuffed with some
brutally honest letter.
No,
to me, at this
moment, you are more
like a shelter—
a dark and dusty
room in the cellar
where exactly one
determined writer
and his husk
of old desk can
just barely fit
(provided he
sits hunched
uncomfortably enough)
hoping to scribble
out a new and
desperate poem
frenetically inspired
by your abstract,
distant singing,
enchanted by
melody's lack
of a metaphor,
and fantastically
alone.
