you think about words and
about the places they come from
you think about meaning
about these small beautiful images
that the poets polish like valuable stones
that are worth
the tiniest fraction of nothing
and against them you place your
grey slabs of self-hatred
you talk about the burning girl
long after her ashes have grown cold
and you remember reagan
as a monster
as a vampire
but you have reached
a point in time where no one else
wants to speak the truth
about the dying
you have become
a man defined as angry because
this is what fear looks like
when seen from outside one’s own skin
