for a minute, o
severed head,
that you exist—
not to be seen,
but, in the limit,
just
to speak to me—
defend me,
befriend me when
I'm stuck
for an ending.
In the mirror,
it seems that my
own face's creases
are multiplicative
and deepening—
and yet, still
I am reluctant
as an apprentice
to admit
that fairy tales
have endings,
and horse tails
may have endings,
but works of art
(like knives)
just have their
edges
and their ends.
