Id

It comes from that voice dogs can hear, the glass-

breaking high C that makes life sylphlike.

Of course sylphlike’s

for pussies. If I say I want a dancer’s body,

I don’t want to dance: I want to be lithe,

lasting a little longer to take in

the traffic jams. I don’t want to look inward,

reflect on, stare at my reflection, nail

another deer on the mantle. Be indelible—

all cobble and boarded-up windows.

Dear reader, I left cupboards open

for your perusal. So trespass my secrets:

I have never cast the petulance aside,

not even just sat with that humlessness.

Can I call that my own personal abyss?

I’m not exempt, I’m no special case, I won’t

go around with scissors and a razor blade,

cutting into things, inspecting, shutting down

the operation. I don’t want to say nimbus

when I mean shotgun. Or be my friend

when I mean slip it in. Penthouse,

when I mean pent-up house.