Your soul's in your silhouette.
Your outline, the drawing of you,
or what people reckon
is your shape,
the rest can be filled in later.
(People never come back
to their hometowns,
if they can leave them,
but there also is their soul,
the outline and outcome.)
Your soles and your windowsill,
both figments of control
both fixtures, but not doorways,
never, never doorways.
You cannot walk through them.
You cannot walk away.
Your soul and your silhouette,
one in each hand.
...Why, I have been
mistaken.
You are sole and
you are solitary
and you are silver.
In some cut-out way.
Baby, who cut you out?
Who made those nicks, and little
silver cuts
while you sat in the window?
What are you cut from?