The Rule

1 Father trellis of my voice (or noose) abruptly vanished — 2 I wear this razory fishhook of crucifix. Look. How it helps me keep my head down, down with shame, the glory and shame see this frail weightless chain: there is another like it. Sometimes my neck feels like it’s breaking — It hangs right here near the heart’s hidden room where a table is set for me not a dark bar. No more that pointless horror. Weightless frail chain massive iron seaweed and barnacle-bearded anchor — You may peek from your door toward dawn and see me attempting to make it to the end of the hallway to the restroom bent double, gasping for air in small sips but I will be there, table set for three, the unseen host, then me there to meet my own glorified body who does resemble me in a vague way, but is not particularly radiant or splendid: he is ugly, as though he had been crying all his life that can’t be my soul people scream when they first see it