whenever, and whatever you choose
to be. In a bespoke white tuxedo,

your head full of locks tucked under locks
tucked under a brim cocked

hard enough to flirt
with a fit studded thing

in the front row—riding
your note’s flit. Out of time,

but you’re not dead really, just beyond
earshot of our bone-shaped

hours. When you sing “tonight,”
it’s that time when one calls another out

of their name in the dark. Timeless,
which is less about time, more about perpetuity,

about the little red button held down
to record, to replay, to begin again your dance

through shattered mirrors, a hopping
from one self to another. When you sing

“your,” it’s a possession that really is
no possession. “She belongs

to all of us now,” I heard the radio
lie. Nothing can hold you now—

no mirror, no mother, not even
the box in which we left you.

 

*

From Magma 94

 

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