I tumble around the room like someone took
a jar of me, glass jar of stones, and turned
the whole thing upside down, whirled and shook
its heart on tile floor. My eyes have burned
incisions in every surface, facts so real
that only when I turn my livid hands
to pebbles, burnt dark charcoal, can I feel
their laughter, furled into ampersands.
Pour me as a thousand stones that knock
against each solid place this room cannot
describe; subtract each spasm of the clock
from remnants of a future I forgot:
bitter stones that rattle in my brain
remember what this flesh cannot contain.