what are the things
you know of me
that you keep, unspoken?

the secret me you keep
and by extension,
my undiscovered twin.

is it family or alien?
or do i have no right
to such distinction.

i have been, for some
two thousand years
or more, dissolving
in waspish creation.

i am, who has been long-
forgotten. already, i am
not of conversation.

a fuzzy, artless form
is turning in the paper
of a nest, drowning

in droning oceans—the ply
of dialogue, subsumed
by black battalions.

can you hear them?
they are humming
the densest metaphors.

//