Myself Poem by Christopher J. Grasso

In myself I need no name.
Named according to all tree, stars,
or sun or moon.

They are objects to title and finalize.

What is the significance of me?
Me, an inch of flesh sliced into real sword-play,
a swordfight with God gripping the handle against me?

Thus, my number is zero.
An equation never to factor upon.

There is not a race of steps when you trip,
No fight in feudalness which dots out the stars
with black Sharpie.

Movement is only for flocks or bus travelers,
words are cut out of my tongue,
my lungs collapse.

In myself I need no name.
Named according to all trees, stars
or sun or moon.

I squirm in-between sand,
this is the torture of me.
Some functions I am a drone,
A member of me unrelated.

The twilights shine on my darkness
on an afternoon that I only may spend.

And my stoning, is a stoning of granite,
Thrown by those with the most sin.

Which I can never forget. Or forgive. Nor shall you now.