In the days of yore I was a parakeet and my mouth
a river The lights low to see
into other worlds Vessels completing
circuits Ancient conjurings and obscure
geometries Screens so lovely
If I have a true self it is you Blood, slow
Dimensionally agnostic and lost in the loam A gun-
powder portrait or arc that ends with smashing
into glass Skeletons scanned An imaged sky
If you hold me in your head I will be happy
An edible ghost Encoded identity in a cloud
of processors The difference you experience entirely
different Perforated form Sad
appendage The heart, a stencil