by Christine Hume

    I'm not right. I'm interfered¹ with

    and bent² as light. I tried to use the spots，

    for months I tried with rings.

    Only now I'm thinking in cracks

    that keep a modern light

    lunged. I keep the porch light on

    to burn you off in ghosted purls，

    the licks of which filament³ me.

    My Day-Glo tongue's cutthroat.

    Though I'm not clear，

    I'm a sight whose star stares back：

    it's a new kind of dead；

    it hides its death in my cinched

    testicle. That bright burr makes me

    unreal and itch⁴. By the time

    I'm something else， you're making weather

    with so-and-so. Drama tenants⁵ you；

    it wades⁶ in queasy⁷ waves，

    mottled to the marrow⁸.

    My mean streak⁹ beams neon

    so I won't be refracted

    or led to reflections. My eyes

    trick god's and kick the careless reversals

    of radio cure-alls. Rays suffer

    until they clench¹⁰ the damaged night in me：

    where I go out， gone as done

    in a mood of black moving through.

    Darkness sits there， pleased.

    An iridescent¹¹ ire could not go unaired，

    my limbs wicking at the window.

    Look out the window.

    I've outened the world

    to show you real barrenness：

    a void a light

    warps¹² into want and then wants

    until it warps all it glances.

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