pin holes in the plaster 

the puncture is almost large enough
to walk through. poster after
poster. paper machete rib. i spend hours 
pulling pins from my bedroom wall.
have you ever performed archeology 
on your own face? pix axe? brush?
i find all kinds of relics. my old life 
standing in the corner with 
a pair of sunglasses on. who taught you
your favorite disguises? i hold
every thing together with thumb tacs.
arm to shoulder. band poster 
to my back. i would turn & turn 
in the nights here as if i were a water wheel.
window full of polished stars. seeing
the bare wall. the beast's belly.
all the holes left like little eyes.
i mistook them for doorways but 
there are sights of vigil. they say,
"goodbye beautiful thumb." i say,
"good morning eyelash." putting tongues
into trash bags. i should not have to move
ever ever again but i know i will.
i know there will be more faces 
from which i remove the lips 
& let them encircle me. i run my fingers 
over the raised spots where each 
wound is left. one of them 
starts to bleed so i hold my finger there
until the small trickle of blood stops.
i step back. i might be selfish 
but it is hard to imagine the life 
of a space after i am gone. my ghost
still there wrapped in birthday cards 
& blurry photographs. i exit
through the narrowest wound.
i want to say i carry nothing with me
but i carry everything. 

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