we pretend that

we are more than

a clenched fist

slowly leaking.

the sound almost

names itself

"liquid mortis",

but waits for

introductions,

and waits.

somewhere, a gaze

jaywalks through

a soul for the first time;

irises wane into

a gibbous of green

a chartreuse smile

flashing back, until

the colors invent

a new way to blind.

you'll draw a grid

on a scrapbook page

around the shrapnel of

your best shots, shot;

kodak moments tic-tac-toe'd,

divided by an algebra

where the x's and o's

always cancel, equal zero.

even Orwell would be

impressed, you think,

by the way we blackwhite shoeboxes,

in closets that could have

their own national anthem, with

hugs and kisses that could have

their own national anthem.