Brindle Bronze

I twist myself around realities

to differentiate my personalities,

comparing the similarities.

I stalk silver ghosts

through the thick fog of river bogs,

listening, as ancient dialogues vocalize

epic prologues and epilogues.

I study stone-carved runes

with cross-shaped text books,

hoping to understand why the

moon’s face is always stuck in

a perplexed look.

My dense soles wander hollow roads

above lost souls, knocking lose hot coals

to illuminate their black holes.

My gifts are wrinkled songs,

cupped in simple palms,

coated in brindle bronze.

I wade in still water,

desperately waiting to be

stolen by an orphaned current.

I empty my asthmatic lungs at

dense clouds, hoping I can turn

their opaque skins transparent.

I kiss searing tongues of flames so

my lips can learn how to burn.

I stow aboard sinking ships,

knotting my head to the

bow, and my heart

to the stern.