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for a Veneer of Progress
When I concede a fictional country, I gain a battleground,
wake stunned as if under attack and come to relearn
the architecture of my sloughed-off clothing, my uniform
of striped shirts and rigid black jeans splayed books,
unagitated water glass, brass and silver chains
fastening light to the wall, holding it accountable.
Another time I rose from a rush mat on the floor,
fastened myself into hooks and eyes heard myself
named by honorific nonexistent from the record of harvests
except as a handprint in dust an unscripted drama.
Another time I masked as a boy and vanished to sea.
So this morning that is a rupture is a gain of sorts
though the body is still contested under ribbed occupation
and to rise under the deadweight of progress
is to unlatch myself from soft, enveloping creases
is to overcome the paralysis of productive time while enfolding
in my collars and eyelids acts of sleepless refusal.