She brings an old cup of coffee into my black room,
leaves the window open. I
strip down, fleshed, ladle my clothes in a
chemical as if I had froze, perpetuated,
into succinct dimensions, and
left behind are bleached
garments and an even older cup of coffee.
Detach my soul and pin
it on a line, dangle it
above my eyes like leather hide
half dried of the holy, singed with
cigarette burns of unconfessed sin.
Peel off each of my virtues, reposition them on a
large table near the door.
I want to see their colors emanate,
out the black, keeping me from
flipping the light switch.
Thin light, shafted, healing
abrasions through the stained glass
upon Monday through Saturday’s lashings. A
forgiving time to photograph
is in the early evening,