I might like to be porcelain
but it breaks too clean.

A face is not meant to be glued
in straight lines

a girl cannot paint her mouth
or be painted, a shelf

is not for sitting. I will not cramp
or mold with moths, I’ve dusted

off this cage, and you say I am too much
about wings and swinging lamps

perhaps I am

perhaps I am bored

with the pendulum and only want
one steep arc to lean against

a hard angle
something definite

who can fault me for loving
the fault, for tonguing the crack

we crumble within, what ache
would you deny? I celebrate

the wax and its sun, the wingless
skeleton,    my silt   my swoon