Closed Medicine Cabinet

This is the one where the poet plagiarizes herself,
beyond the sycophantic, uber frantic, triple threat
of making it look harder than it is.

Washed up on the shore, the untamed imagination,
swaddled in seaweed--at last, we are afraid of the sublime.
At last, your tender throat can give.

I shower you with uncertain phrases, sprinkle your kind
with pages of desperate violence, the cold knives
of trial and error, the confidence of murder.

There is always an I and always a you and always the temperance,
the boundaries, the differance--the meaning deferred,
which is why the light is brief, a bomb exploding, then silence.

The structure has inherent purpose, determined before it is used--
a bruised attempt to make objects universal. I carry my voice beyond
the threshold until the language pops, threatened, broken.