Out there we have a world.

 

I doubt myself, my hands like lace,

pale anaemic whispers, and touch the air.

 

It is heavy like a pallbearer’s lung,

it is, where my eye meets, rust.

 

“Remember me” - What youth I have!

Thin and untidy, knotted and Ophelia,

 

under my fingernails, and innate,

leaping out of my throat. Unkissed.

 

There are some giants here, here in this outside world.

 

The fame inside is where it lasts,

red aches, monarchs, orchids - mention this

 

upon old.

 

I start stupid, I –

 

fast my speech, it drives mad

and wooden families about my hand need courage,

 

safe in the carves, safe in what man made, what it is -

sometimes I feel,  things too soon to be imagination,

 

and it is unfair. If a thought was an embrace,

we have.

 

I move. It makes. Strange that

I taste a butterfly, should I prepare for memory this way?

 

The harm of wing, delicate, so fit to vanish,

out the harsh eye, out the word raped,

 

out of nothing, I sit, making stories old

and crying of their loss.

 

Inside, worlds so left,

and plays unplayed in theatres,

 

roaming the halls, wide elephant walks,

mountain muffled whale weeps,

 

is a step is a step is a step, is a meeting a death.

So unmet, these every braves

 

and so figurative my hand is,

touching this air.

 

The move is yet.