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I’d like to walk away from myself
showing more than the back of
my head, but there I go.

My story is on the wall,
shadows growing from fires
lit in the night -
I can’t look away,
caveman fascination
in its prophetic visions.

There are three silhouettes,
and one of them’s a sword.
I’m standing on both ends.

I’m the stain and the carpet,
wondering how to come clean
without losing myself.
I’m the nervous system
and the autoimmune response,
the miner dig-dig-digging for riches
and the fumes waiting to smother
bright-breasted canaries,

contrasting
like Darwinism and religion
gnawing both sides of a bone,
no intention of letting go
until it splinters -
the life-giving dust
of a supernova
and the subsequent
black hole.

I’m the glacier melting in surrender
to my own rising temperatures,
fossil records be damned and scattered
because I’m lost in the light,
archeologist of courage
and the black market,
siphoning pieces to the highest bidder
(which is also me, over there).

I’m waiting
for a second sun to pass the glass,
another light for another shadow,
to stop eroding,
but it becomes a greenhouse frame.
I’d like to see myself as more than
shattered glass on the floor
when my feet are bare.

Another possibility day,
and I’m already dressing
in discount Halloween masks.

Maybe you won’t recognize me...
not yet; you might recognize me
any second.

It’s the back of my head,
but it’s not familiar unless
we’ve grown accustomed to it.