latitude: perceived obsolescence: unplanned

(we lay there for months drawing back
tiny muscle. and grafting an exegesis of skin.)






My voice, which is the most terrible gift from me.
Indiscriminately. You refuse to touch me with sound.

I want you to tell me a story about unknowing me.
Even the mirrors have become bars we lean against.
Even the body has become a gift we regret.

Either way, I showed up today with my cast on.
With what I wouldn’t give to hear you say Technicolor.
With a guitar and an E string that sticks to itself.
With elephants and a memory of what was found.






It is hard to imagine there are fingers
that do not belong to me. That speak a language to
your body I do not know.

Come closer love, and do not diminish me.
These, which are the politics of our nevering
and you, who are a fistful of duet.
Pressed generously in the girders of my back.






It is not so much that we are
unbroken. Standing like a cyclone
on the periphery of that door.

The cataracts of leaving distinguish me.
And yet. I believe in this retrieval. You,
who are an elliptical. a sweeping. a banishment.

Come closer. Rest my hand on that fragile.



























Yesterday.

A silence we begin for.

And yesterday.

The crossing nothing comes.