The Mime

Something remarkably thin
about the vault you surprise yourself in.

Blind hands borrow along
boundaries of a mute universe

checking the rope, the wall,
the window— What ions

are your hope motes mingling?
A basket of imaginary apples?

A theoretical rocking chair
by the hypothetical fire?

What’s wrong? Don’t you
want to say what’s wrong?

(Eye diamonds smeared.
Body unbuttoned at every joint.)

Are you a paper doll?
Is your country sick?

Did you split your fist
on the public mirror?

Did the last sung light
turn your blood out?

Lend us some counterfeit tears—
can you fill the bag?

Having fashioned
a room from sky

to fix the ordinary;
can you hold the pose?