Once Out of Nature
No natural form, this body --
flesh he presses to my wrists' insides,
Tulpa! Still thing, no movement
made from fragment, oozing
step by stretched-out silhouette.
He moves from corners,
paper ectoplasm. His contours,
a certain shape I know
not what--speaks in a stolen voice.
Syllable by synecdoche, his black eyes
gyre. How glossy with the tar-pool
pulsing under his curve.
Touch from bedroom walls in shadow's
shape. Byzantium: I bite
& mouth floods strange
delirium. Holy fire, taste
of swallowed saints, of prayers
I scrawled on skin, on floors.
I dreamed this once: a deconstruction
fleshed from fiction,
tattered coat I tore from torn
up poetry. Conjured. Paper-
thin, desire sick & singing, fear
enameled in this form he takes,
the scent of gold & amber.
Tulpa, with his shellac suit,
his boots of beetle-wing. I grip
the bough he offers, palm or prophesy,
my sharp tooth bared.
My spine writes alphabets in sweat.
He moves like oil,
puncture in the universe, an animal
who arches at the artifice. All through
this drowsy summer I have worked
his breath, his chest, a creature cut;
born from ink, & from my will begat.