I Talk to Another More Than Myself
The same words: anathema,
bibliographic, mark
our language as fallen.
Stencils of trees to decorate trees.
At the museum, you are impressed
by ancient bronze. Metal ribs
of another. I wield a dull knife
to my way of seeing:
the thoughts, not muscles,
feel the threat. The word-hinges—
like tools of unknown origin—
exposed under the more modern way
to light the artifacts. My use of
you could distill us, make room
for another experiment in materials.