As you knead Your eyes distend like rivers Behind half reflecting glass Frames marked with the bird foot marks Of your anxious imposture Imprison half your face As if gulls had fled The knot between your teeth As if you could in misered focus Taste skittish thoughts In that hard bitten fibrillation The more piquant Rank sourness For a palsied freedom I do not know how you see Through that constant pouring A cattish nonchalance Scrape with the axe blade of your hand At some casual irritation The fissile texture Of flour on your skin As if inside, a statue were emerging Eggshell and porcelain –Bisque I think they say Like the soup Somehow in birthed paleness, lithe As if the outer self A thing of frowns and creases Of variegations more imposited than arranged Were the shell, the now ossified thing You have like any wiser being outgrown
