Like Paper

Randall Wilson

I want to lie in bed, with
tilted eyes and the messy
being what it was with/out
the charms of blue circles
that forever never were.

I want to meet the white with
white-out, a cross over my head
like a deathbed known to the
preacher but not the parish.

ivory limbs, I want them like
paper, you concerned for their
thin nature that they might just
break in your hypothetical
embrace.

but I wish them little, to become
small and wither, beautiful and
malnourished into a state of
utter understanding for what was
and still is the glory
and the magic
of losing
everything.