and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.

such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
goaded on
and on
and on.

so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured

not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.

this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,

dye me now
and count my bones.

we can be everything the moment
says we should be
instead.