Spin

It is not how you are
like him; it is how
you are not. The globes
of prophecy drop
in a thimble of eyes
fretting. To trace
the symbol of
a rocket on my shoulder.
To win, to win.
To ask, where to place
your tattoo. Three
days of crouching,
straining into the heat
vent, to ask: where
is its world. To forget,
to say: you drain,
to get on a train speed-
ing under his likeness.
To not fret, to wind.
To frisk the skeleton,
to find new kin. To find:
it is not how
you are like him.