i know hate, its line-
mates. believe me. you kids have, i’m sure,
wasted—all early morning anxious
and weak-ankled—their first impatient
shuffle-kicks and curses on me. no cage
contains a stare that well. and despite
my perch, i too know damage: precise,
zeroed-in maps of possession and loss, traceries
step-chiselled into moments that loop
around and into—through and across—
each, the other. at my worst, i am
my own recurring dream, forever turning
a corner. and because i am always,
when push comes to shove, behind glass
—seated, and away—i’ve become a fan of
jealousy, can pick him out in the looping
confusion of warm-ups. i have his sweater
hanging somewhere on my wall, his cards
tucked in a box under my bed. indulge
me. tell me: can you understand what it is
to be something most others only wait,
grudgingly, through; endure? i can and
do, can and do. i am a common
cold, the advertisements that linger too long
before a feature. and though you
may never see this, the lights—i can assure
you—go down each night; the scoreboard’s
bulbs snap and flicker, then die. but the ice,
it seems, will always be there: a constant wound
to dress, a scar i run myself along and over.
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