the cracked thistle

“If I am, I am but lightly.” - Beckett

the testimony is the body.
a failing precision i have no further 
to witness. i am already 
what is left of tomorrow. 
i leak this intolerable
lucidity, and forget whose eyes i am 
seeing through. like the milk 
of the cracked thistle, i invented 
blood to give the heart a serpent 
it can not see. i invented roots  
and the smell of the cut grass. see
i still remember how that crescent moon sits 
inside my mouth, turning up the edges,
feeding me a half-dark light.