Necromancer

Let our minds betray us – give me

a frame that was once warm to work with.

There is an end hunchbacked over me.

I owe nothing but busy my hands

like a mother. There is a reckoning slumped

like a not-quite-death. I steal metaphor

and wring its neck. Penitence. Like the heart

a poem lives in thunder. Through the

arteries a language erupts.

Here is an inscription, a thing within

a thing, vein-blue to the touch.

Here is a body, ill-fitting and fevered.

Go – tell Ouroboros, our forefather of

paradox: This won’t ease, but it fractals.