There’s No I In

the self tucked beneath the broken
cellar door. A message
to all of us who would sculpt
drunken angels from stale snow.
Those of us who would wear ourselves
out on sleeves cut from subway maps,
sewn together crooked of course.
Hand me another bottle
of you before regret
covers my body head to toe.

I live in this universe instead.
It’s riddled with inner islands
floating inside ships
overflowing with irony.
I wait waist high in reservoir guilt.
I weigh recursive lies in motion
against static stick figures
spilling drinks mixed in reliquaries.
Kisses I risked giving in girlhood
collide with this single twisted limb image,

which survives inside itself.

This failed identity.
This littoral outside.
This lifted city.
This rising upside.
This solid illusion.
This storied inside.

Another forgotten parallel world
where we rocked ourselves to sleep
under the waves and trees.

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