The unspeakable architecture of error
allows no place to rest.
My eyes open enough
to make the air narrow. Iron and glass
askew the lines, the obtuse hard triangles of light,
my steps. I ask you, what tantrum, what
diseased hand has drawn them? What human
words can reason with these lines?
What dissonance am I left capable of sounding?
What but silence? I ask you.
These lines speak of starving, they starve
my lines, they make me you, they make them
us, they entangle death and life
in a mass of heavy somber light.
