𝑥 once said
poetry is the secret-
ion of the self,
a star drawn
through the body like silver wire.
But the I
and you are nothing:
love and the ghost
of love
bright and hygienic
as angels.
Magpies thread the sky
with song and memory–
starless blue-dark
I pass
between like Lazarus.
I think
of the man I sat next to on the train
with the bruised arm,
the arm of many colours.
What rainbows the body bleeds.
How the canopies of myth
erase our names.