GLYPHS UPON THE WALL
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They hang there now: stiff rectangles framed
in cheap pine, proclaiming expertise.
I nailed them up with picture hooks
that bit the plaster, leaving little wounds.
Each one a glyph, a glyphodont’s thick hide—
armor against the who-are-you?
I trace the embossed letters with one thumb—
not gold-leaf, just cheap foil catching light—
and think: This proves I fought. I didn’t break.
The paper’s thin. The frame’s off square.
But oh—how fiercely it holds up the air.
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