Extrovert

A previously untitled thing that needed finishing

Pictured: You’ve got to put all these gods somewhere. Someone might need them later.

I fear
nothing. Except
The shrinking of the sky,
the closing of doors, shadows
making mouths swallow;
the day when I will wonder
what is left of me,
and where did I leave it,
and whether the interest payments
have outlived the principal.

Yes, I rejuvenate myself with your skin,
your blood,
but by your leave
I thrill at scattering love on the ground
Watching the birds gobble and carry
it away, praising me with cries;
I fear reaching in my pocket for more
and finding only crumbs,
pity, not scorn, on your face,
and a closing door.

I'm missing too many parts.
It seemed wrong to hoard-
my head, my eyes, belong to the world, you said;
I had promised someone those hands to remember me by,
and another, my skull, to laugh and remember
while I sat grinning on his desk.
But there are softer parts missing too-
not stolen or squandered, but absent,
and I am somehow still able to walk upright,
talk, sleep, and pretend,
while unwhole.

I know it's not my fault
(but thank you for reminding me)
though I still feel it acutely,
looking at your family photos
and smelling the sea 
in midday in the city.