I wanted what I knew
to be a thing
that I could hold and handle and give away.
If you know
Ode on a Grecian Urn,
there is the object
and there is its ornament,
there is the object taken over
by the ornament,
the ode is to the ornament,
the ode
becomes the reason for the object
or the reason for the object to be known,
but only as the object is a surface
for the ornament
and this, right here, is none of those.
This is the ode without the object,
this is trying to make the object
from the ode.

There is the sitting still
finding the torso
a solid column of flesh and air
stretching and squeezing belief,
there is discovering
the hole inside belief
clinging to the vine
when it is rotting
and clinging to the rotten smell
when it breaks,
there is clinging
to the hole inside belief
eating outward from the hole
eating belief—

there is the sudden violent rubble
concrete dust and chunks and rusted rebar
shattered glass and ruined interior detail,
there is standing
with no feet
and no floor.

There is the palpability of the child.
Warm legs. Tied shoes.
Eyes that can't feign trust and can't hide fear.