from Timothy Garrison: Unfixed Image

Don't paint me on lined-up boards, not me as

attendant (fireplace tools), eyes perched open

as ice over jaws stretching skin to con-

jugate went back into wend. Not sword-saint,

not the dream-cloud of tangent belly babes

whose only living is as a flourish.

Don't even remake me Ganymede, re-

taken, borne by barbs–though who wouldn't want

this crown, these cluster gems for cutting sight,

and who wouldn't be tempted to play a

long liking, before shocking the feather

daddy dead by water-cum-salt, unblue?

Or do. But barring these, paint me as film

sheets, big as palls, mirrored amber, molding.