My eyes burn,
and I can wrap light strings around yours,
tangle up your sight instead of reading, in segments, or dinner.
I watch pages flit at my chest,
and it is the bronze that would do, every breath a humming storm,
every explanation held on itís back appropriately.
Somehow I have blood, and lungs,
and I am selfish now, with scratches from the binding,
with breakage from all the wrapping and unwrapping of sound.
My body rests, at night,
and I am treading somewhere on a street, in a city.
Imagine the distance in string, imagine every starving hour, imagine why.
I will close and stack whatís left,
and I will follow shadows if they lead,
I will chase them if they curl themselves the way that reminds me to worry.