pry my fingers open--i'm not sure what i'm
holding clutched so tightly in my fist.  perhaps it's a letter
to your mother, that woman who says i am her soulmate--
or a letter to you,  who, i believe, in the past
once or twice said likewise,

before you lent your elapsed and nameless lover
a deliberate neglect.
so shall the protagonist speak for the swiftness
of the fleeing hooded shape. btw, your voice is no longer
recognizable, now that my ear has become
a metaphor.  braille is how
we will find each other

if you ever want to.

meanwhile, there is punctuation with no words,
a collar but no neck,
an oven with no door,
tea waiting forever in its canister
to release its flavor,

a roll of tickets pretending to be useful money

"if you are as good as you are beautiful, i will dress
you in silk and velvet, i will place a golden crown
upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule, and
make your home in my richest castle."  and then he
lifted her on his horse and she wept. . .

trouble is, none of this is true.  i am neither good nor beautiful.
therefore, you did not lift me on your mustang.

however, it is true i wept