At once I wish I was
a solid plate of glass: immutable, maybe
with a sheen of white, of only blue, or simply green
An air of clear and cool irrefutability
Objects raise no questions of trust

But I am beast, braid, bone of bird
A marked lilt; lisp of carnal curvature.
To penetrate the steep and slender eyes
that stand in stark relief like mountains
in their hollow sheaths, requires no more
than a mirror.

Hands at rest; they are human hands.
The mind, it is a mammal one. Prone to
bursts of neurotic clang, fizzy fits of
will dissolved; compulsion and crocodile
teeth, all in one.

God, how do I steer this writhing thing?
My limbs are infants.
My brain is a box.

My mouth is a hot hole where sewage spills out.
I am not a true person, how could I be? My
limbs are blackbirds clamouring to opposing poles;
I am dumber than a rose. My brain is in my chest,
for all I know. Each bone

is a mast with infinite masters. My name
has been painted over, over and over.

What could you call me, besides water,
besides liar? Throw my flesh to the fire
and cast me as glass;

so I might become white, or blue,
or simply green; irrefutably, a real person at last.