If you ever meet the invisible man
And his dusty wife or sidekick
and you find token token token token, blunt on your lips,
Act like you know
They might wish to be you—a beautiful soloist everybody hopes with and to
and when they watch through a telescope as you fold your hair/heart first, into poems and plats and fractals and repurpose
while they're choking on the ash of their own limpid poses, you're spinning on the axis of a math they don't compute in, increase after increase, you control the wind
They'll take notes, they'll know they're no where and act erased or a race or lie and say they're black/maybe
They'll hope you can save them, even just by noticing and saying so,
and instead you'll just say no, letting them fall through boredom into tantrum and back like bad television all the while wishing you would see them. Don't let them in. They are temporary people hoping to raid eternity, parasites hoping to learn your secret and feed on it. They are starving. When they ask a lot of questions don't be flattered, be silent as the globe. Slide a maraca across your limbs' blood and feel your power ripple through and repel them, give them their problem back like the gospel, one pagan at a time
