I lost the end of myself somewhere near the start,
among the scattered sheets of blotting paper
sprung up on iron girder stalks.
Parchment alliums staked out like skeletons,
petals more like teeth,
poems in the stems of them,
but no air for the words to breathe.
Between the leaves the stanza’s curled,
coppered, golden, burnt and burnished,
rhythm rolling hollow in the echos,
tongue twisted through the skirmish
as syllables clattered in and out
silver toothed, thick lipped, broken.
Turned over once, then twice, then thrice,
poetic promised poured and stolen.