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.

and without words,

the song
I am never not singing.