I'm a dead face without mirrors

on a beanstalk

in a sea of daylight

in a medieval ballad

I sport a mind with a tight fit,

so narrow

it's just a hair's breadth across the sun,

with a ruthless pain

obnoxious enough to pry open most languages

when the day is hot

I fold myself like a bear trap

out on the steps of the front porch,

watching Anna tirelessly go about

I am a dead tired watchfulness,

the swallows circling me,

my thoughts crouching,

the shadows of moving parts slashing

across the Elysian field of vision;

myself a dubious piece of corpus delicti

lying about in the swell of old times

in a tsunami of autoimmune accusations,

the worlds intimidating by their sheer number alone

in front of  this dead face on a beanstalk

in the Valley of the Shadow of Death

on a hot day in July