For who am I reserved?

I weave a curl from my medicine into a stag’s crown - 

splintered howls bow, and I am uninspired.

 

Tired, moving into more, ridicule, perspire,

and leaving town, the wrists salivate on the floor, dumb,

and I am chicken skin,

 

barely thin anymore; retention, a cupidity clause,

a stained air, a gas, an alcoholic bypass,

the weather between pestle and mortar,

 

refined by the words of your altar,

God on the internet, the movement I

smile delicately, with punctuation and profile.

 

How do I look? An eye has an I, magnifying

all faults as revelations

and all beauties as imaginations,

 

turning over, there is a psychology textbook

and a baptism.