At fourteen
I did nothing
of note in the night
and hid within day.

Now
I’m concealed
and burned.
Rest is not mine.

I breathe
life into lack —
the dark so full
it hungers

for hours round
as eggs —
unfertile,
liquid

pretending
to sun, aura
source
and shade.

Track
their wreck
down the snake’s
back, toward

his infinity
of ends. Breaking
without a trace, as
you they break.

Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review
Issue #19, Fall/Winter 2002, Tenth Anniversary Issue