At the moment I am trying to unlearn a few dated techniques in my writing: slavery to certain rhythms and meters, structures and suchlike. This is a brief poem about the patterns we do learn.
To start, the image of myself though clean lacked
I, like a clear blue sky, lacked any
An empty glass vessel, unmarked and
Fragile in an uninteresting way.
A pristine snapshot of thin air,
A canvas of pure Klein blue.
Now of course your fingerprints are
All over me, my speech, my tongue, my
Throat, every sound I make.
I learned a pattern from you,
I was a pattern of you, I remain
A pattern. Even the twist
In the wineglass stem between fingers
Left its mark.
One can detect a unique pattern not just
From the deoxyribonucleic acid but
Also fingertips, true, and also
The tongue; also the ear, unique to us all
In infinitesimally small and delicate ways.
The imprint, as evidence, has successfully
Condemned several men.
So in these respects
Intimately with these tongue and fingers
And patterns traced within my ears
I am a marked surface,
Retracing these patterns.