stiff, grey, and without corners
shearing off his hair like a lamb or
my grandfather when his body
ate itself,
he rearranged chairs for his audience
every evening and gave speeches to
empty rooms in the morning.
peeled off the steel of his hair
to give his skull space to grow,
to bloom out like an apple blossom,
like an anemone
like a fern, tendrils opening out
into the sky
tender and pale
skinless
moist
about to tear
bust wide open like a pink scar splits
the way amber glue bubbles out
from between joints of wood
busting out of the seams
and corners of a door frame
as the door squeezes by,
slams, closed doors,
changing the locks.
the panopticon and the grey-eyed fog
my spine is a string you pluck
rattling my neck all the way up into my brain
like a cold ripple in a lake
or the shiver of a cymbal.
turn back to the table,
turn back to your wife, your life
look back to the end of
these train track stitches
where you took that first arctic step
the sour fever
the frost
the rot behind the eyes
cold and eucalyptus
someone blowing cool air against
your sweating forehead
putting out your honey fire
auroch
