Encasement and Fog
When the rest of the world was yours & you
could see through marbles of fishbowls—
without algae in your eyes;
you blinked & were moist with yourself.
You call those times the Best.
Done up and gone—
it’s easy to look back & say that’s All.
How big are you now?
Dried & pruned of love’s stupid dew?
Are you shellac for empty vases?
Or is your shell a soft beacon for those
who live in fear of being Close?
Who can be close to you?
You always call checkmate.
Your fishbowl feet go lightly;
tramping dirt & rocks that you Damn.
Ain’t nothin’ gonna break you again.
Drips echo their hollow—
keeping hearts free from mold.
Empty sun just mitigates
barrenness; when there’s nothing else to be told.