none of us could have predicted: run the
simulation again, knowing what you know,
knowing sweetness isn’t everything as you
press frosting into your cheek. you reek of
sugar / you’ve grown sweet on failure again.
who leaves flour in the yard picks their
topics: yes, i believe in your well-being. no,
i don’t want to talk about the fact of houses.
logic is the structural wall you’re thinking
to devastate. there doesn’t seem to be intention
here, a sentence with a true duality. we hurt us
to take care of us. no, not that exactly. we apply
each other to our wounds. we point at our fineness.
we finesse the narrative before we know the
narrative: 3am says pleasure says pain also (the
window’s already in that wall). sometimes i’d like
to lay my head in your lap. sometimes i’d like to
borrow your bodily experience. i do my best to watch
the thoughts be waves but i see all of what waits to
sting me, the cloud of it, its sound. is love a feeling
or is it a fever? a state or a state of emergency?
does love’s breath also get short? we ducked the
measure to take the ride but i promise you i’m
always measuring, hand hovered well above
my own head. once i’ve flung myself into the air,
directly up, i feel no different but the earth feels
different. i rename the bottoms of my feet THE
EARTH and set seeds there, unsunk. all day
i slide the potential to grow along with me, under
me, making my foundation with haste, unable
to go beyond the threshold who knows to scrape
away this deranged waiting