Said the Rebel to my Heart,

“Can you feel the Braille of my Thoughts,

if read in the dark?

You should write a poem called

‘The Speculum’, so I can see

into the heart-shaped

box where you keep your soul locked

before I d(r)own it and depart,”

said the Rebel, who

stole—and failed—and who denied

what was said from the start—“You should

bide a moment…”—scalped

it from Time; sliced from orange-

faced Truth, the chime of the rewind

whose gears tell, mid-grind,

whose feat trampled—the stealth knell

of belles the Rebel sampled, spliced,

and stood-up each night.

Said he, “I have The Gift That

Comes with a Price; wrong turns make right

the dimming of dawns

our dance’s denim panting

painted-over and made less-bright.”

“Under pants are lies,”

said I, “And zippered teeth speak

the rumour, once sighed, that Silence

cannot clip, which flies.”