Hold These Truths

I keep a dead-baby-me in my pocket.
Fungi thrive in its secret moisture.

My right eye’s wired to a dead, buried soul,
my left eye propped by structural supports.

I see peeled potatoes and discarded skins.
I see nests of cockroaches used as mirrors.

I see rows of housing in fetal position,
high-rises hiding their faces in shame.

I backstroke through a lake of supernovas,
patches of snow and canopies of rust,

submerged in you and covered by lies,
lost in the corridors of your secret.