caught in the echo sleep of seventh

sense hungering for October,

terra-cotta rugs in the

closet. the acid plastic in Turkey is the dislocation of

a friend. disclosure of sharp objects, another one.

a finisher to the dearest, eye socket rocked and

lurching. least on the list, least deserved, the endless cat

forgiveness. may i give up

consciousness like you young noodle?

best get back to folding, optic

opening, light let be.

come back combing your hair seconds flat

after an afternoon shower. i will be racing through pages

in your brief absence for something new.

another absurd business plan about fucking my mom.

she has a man’s name

and your name fits in every song.

come back again, I am no longer deliberate with sharp objects,

brandishing thrifted goods with “starting over” stickers tacked on,

still ordering nightly identical burritos. how did you hide

that rug stained look so well and why might you love me? how coincidental was it

to intersect at your beaming selflessness,

i unfolded somewhat.

the work

is a process

is a shift

is a clock

is a shift (fall back, hour added) is a process

is work.

Siri, cancel my appointment with self target Turkish hitmen.

“what you’re seeing isn’t so bad,” i hear myself echo.

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