after Caitlin McCormack
A slurry of words to glue
two soft skulls
onto a single fragile
frame: what's
strung might make one
look away & what's left
isn't right
in the head, an angle
at loose ends
until a flash fuses you
to your own
negation: the gate is
open & you dangle
tendrils, yoking
to the other
in an embrace
both final & integral.
It's there looking back
at you like an angry mirror.
Binary lotus unfolding
like history in the dark;
mycelium at the beginning
of a thought.
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