Don’t look for a unifying face.
Rather, be the air

that holds the bird, the dark
at the perfected edge of lamplight,

an expanding room of locks
where disarray prepares itself.

At my wedding I wore white,
flat as I could be. This, so that

later, a defector to the background,
I could fool the pez-nerce viewer

trying to guess at my happiness.
I swirled in the olive groves

now crammed into a can of white
walls. What once was out is in.

You taught me about
containment, and now

nothing will keep my anonymity
from sailing

off the edge of the map.