The Villain & the Helpless One

No flip-snap of the letterbox. No Sunday

parade outside my curtained window. I haunt

the vestibule in silence, wearing nothing,

wearing the hours like garments:

a gutter sparrow, all bones and desire.

Truth—dusty and avoidable—

collects like old boots beneath my low-sitting bed.

Vera, I beg myself, undo this thing you’ve done.

And softer: for the sake of unanswered questions,

Lord, save me from myself.

I’ve tied my own knot, took the part of both

the villain & the helpless one in some storybook,

locked in a steamer trunk, among the fox-fur coats,

the diary, & the long-lost, five-pronged key.