POEM

I grasp my diarist-hand
that attempts to clutch my neck
to ghostwrite for my visceral
disappearance

I ask my Biography
to maintain my everyday fleeting
Other Years to continue to tell the tiny voice
within

to never unlock the width of my skull
or clutch my windpassion'd architectural
hyperboreal Latin morning equinox nerve,
the untoilsome core,

a formula of unspecific grace
because I misapply, misappropriate
what it means to recall the words
that you left between us