Anything that’s mended is but patched
and I, a writer, stack patches on
patches. Nearly unbreakable,
I suture them to inevitable.
But nothing really happens
until it does
and nothing is
civilized without subjection.
sin that amends is but patched with virtue
pride was a swelling
self-love expanding
retrograde stars in
my ego, a universe.
If distension is me,
how can I contract
to swallow it?
Ouroboros tells me I can,
logic says the opposite.
virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin
shame was a shrinking
retreat behind the amnion
to safety. I’m condensed, so
why do I feel off-kilter?
Facial fascia burns, a
facade veiling the friction
within, subliminally, I’m
spinning without a center
cardiac arrhythmia my
very own doctrine of flux.

Now, pride and shame are
no longer a dilation
of the pupil replaced
by tapetum I am liquid
I reflect.
My self is no longer
measured by its proximity
to dignity. In the future
I turned to a fox
a wild kitsune, invisible
not a fantastical state
a real, one in a pack of dogs
a sign of disorder
but we are civil. I swear,
our paws supinate
when we pray.