I’m not scared of vitriol
or the pleasure in my name.
You pray (for me) in coincidence
through your father’s religious concerns.
I am gone– so is (she)
insanity of chess pieces. Stolen ashes through
memories. Can you see my longing
for fear. My languages (pray) for
solitude and society. Writing in pen (so I)
can only make artistic mistakes.
Is that an experience? Or
irony in simplicity? I write (on) a slant
in blue
but,
(I am blue)–
I’ve coloured my stone bruises, too.
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