This iamb is a box, its faces flush
With other iambs. Each of them conforms,
For stacking purposes, to sizing norms.
There are no concepts too abstract to crush
Into compartments single meters wide,
Nor feelings too explosive. Once inside,
The cosmos stop expanding. Soundproof shapes
Enclose the tortured screams that pierce the skies.
That you are in an iamb can't surprise:
(Your claustrophobic need to plot escapes...)
A body cannot shed its silhouette.
To beat the window is the only choice
For moths. Be subtle. Listen for my voice
Between the cracks that fault the alphabet.
Identity