“I only ever know myself hanging, in the exulted tempest untouched
by nativities—the possibilities of my name
emptied to the firmaments, which could not care to claim me
yet labour to intubate the clouds, blithely feeding my body to the greying
furies. My own jettisoned to the moors, a bay of white
polyester sheets, illuminated by ornate keys, bandaged
after Catastrophe.”