I am not a man who visits desire.
A shriveled fruit, a pillar of salt
my emptiness splits me like a moat.
I am the alter ego who got away.
a crippled fetus, a dissident fugue
the light shrugs me off like a ghost.
I sleep with the corners tucked in
that I can keep the darkness close
for in that darkness I have no distinction.
I haven’t written very much poetry lately nothing that you haven’t seen so I am very rusty