Tom Beckett

  Tell me again
Through the curtain

What I’m
Supposed to feel

Tell me again
Through the certainty

You feel what
I supposedly am


What we are

It hangs here
In the air



He appears
To be
A she

It works
For them


An “I”
A void

Until “You”
Filling “Me”


Violence can
Be silent


I is
A hole

The dent
In identity


Tell me again

Who we are

What we do

Why do

We do



Doubt runs
Through its
Explicit capital

Time’s not
A name

Desire laps

What goes
Without saying

The eyes
Have it


Tell me
Again about

Shivering in
Your shadow

I forgot
What you

Told me


There’s something
To be

Said for
Footnoting titillations


Desire is
Not designed

It occurs
Among things

Written only
As punctuation


It occurs
To me

In the
Midst of

Things to
Ask what

Did you
Say again

Got in
The way

Of description


Ghosts leave
The waste
Of selves
In cocoons

Rarely listen
To erasures

The format
Of a ghost

Will be
Found in

The grammar
Of erasures


Tell me
Again what

Writing is
That patterns

So disrupt


I’m allergic
To religion

But not
To belief


Tell me
Again about

When walls
Are mirrors


The sexes of

Shadows open in

A philosopher’s propositions


Does procedure
Equal rapture

An A
The the


Is it
Bodies or

Voices which
Most conflate

Parasite and


The curtain
Between us
Is moving


One oozes
Into seeing

The dissolution
Of composure

The sounds
Of extinction

Unanswered residuet
Of questions

Tom Beckett lives, writes and will likely die in Kent, Ohio. His ghosts precede him.
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