If I could reduce the number
of times a day I believe

I’m a fraud.
Could understand why

some love objects get
labeled the Symbol,

others the Story—never
the End. If you could still

talk, would you tell me
the truth? Did you think

I was a virgin? Could you tell,
or did the blushing

camouflage fact,
heighten fiction’s glow?

If death has not rendered you
speechless, please spill

your signal over this chorus
chanting me home.