I die ten thousand deaths for you, each a breath caught too high in my chest, each a moth fluttering against the flat red wet of your teeth meeting in my throat.  

If you tied me down in this room I would only build new arches, blend blue ink across my skin until you see me for what I am, skyline unto my self, silhouette against the city. 

Blind, I have come offering: an open mouth for teaching, the rasp of my breath for taking, I sing for you from this tower, I listen for your reply. 

Dead, I could lay you down in the middle of this road in the middle of this summer in the middle of this life and you would rise for me, and stay risen.