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The Villain & the Helpless One
No flip-snap of the letterbox. No Sunday
parade outside my curtained window. I haunt
the vestibule in silence, wearing nothing,
wearing the hours like garments:
a gutter sparrow, all bones and desire.
Truth—dusty and avoidable—
collects like old boots beneath my low-sitting bed.
Vera, I beg myself, undo this thing you’ve done.
And softer: for the sake of unanswered questions,
Lord, save me from myself.
I’ve tied my own knot, took the part of both
the villain & the helpless one in some storybook,
locked in a steamer trunk, among the fox-fur coats,
the diary, & the long-lost, five-pronged key. 
The Villain & the Helpless One
This Life with Bees