zachor

1-1-11

i have one candle; two commandments
and the window is a night mirror
waving in breath
everything is labeled with a line
of masking tape
and the words, predicted
in my loose curl type
i want to get out of habit
and become nothing
predicted
conceived
- able
dangling
the ledge to drop just fine

this water outside, salt red,
charts every pumping i will to touch, hold, held
where you are, where you distinguish
this reaches to you, into you
metabolizing, anesthetizing

tonight is different from every other night
that. has never been.

"from the depths of the mirror a corpse was contemplating me"