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.
is a process
is a shift
is a clock
is a shift (fall back, hour added) is a process
Siri, cancel my appointment with self target Turkish hitmen.
“what you’re seeing isn’t so bad,” i hear myself echo.