I woke with a souvenir
and we, dark to darkness, are each other
the distance to home
is a little over a wing extended, and we are
far from
committable, latching this slut-to-slut darkness
he already has taken
and I left with him, alone and for that reason,
that he’d take me and I am
lonely for for for for reason
and I was and thought otherwise,
and think that all of us do
call that, an advancement
he did, so sure I’d be bringing him along to play
and aren’t I
tried and try and we cannot be there for each other
silence fills the place we tried and try
as in all I’d rather not know and everything I know
surely cannot be measured
but by my leisure, the lust
and lack is found in piles, as with bodies,
our eyes aren’t connectable dots, consolable either and are
our hanging frames or the bed, hard like a wall, we are and there lack also is
possibilities open, having fell as such a disarray, a chance turning at every side
like this wind and how it will wrongly salvage a dead beetle
so here it is, on its standing legs, like a mascot
or neither us or any one of us and we are a sprain
suddenly taking hold of our night,
and the coward rays bending off the sun
disturb my head and the myth that we won’t part ways
or was it this window seen at a backward glance?
notes