Fragment
Black coffee and bottled water
for days.
Vials of medicine,
clandestine, and expired
travel guides.
A cache of letters, unreadable
Polaroids and photographs.
Bachmann or Franza, in the desert
or, three summers ago
on a blue bus from Cairo.
My body is exposed,
glittering in its invisible skeins
of dread and terror.
And the face.
The terrible intimacy
of the mouth.
What I say
may be used against me.
Not unlike the body.
How it is always
exposed. What happened
in that house
can not be written down.
If I have a secret
I am not telling
then I am a tomb.
Tremendous,
and without words,
the song
I am never not singing.
