all the ropes and chains
and puppet strings
knotted about
our brittle bones
like love turn us
toward a hell
we’ve compensated for
for years and years
where we coo and flutter
like lonesome doves
*
this is where i am this
is where you are this
is where i need to be
no where else but here
where i followed
continuity’s remains
like snails’ wet traces
through damp vegetal rot
where i find the eyes of the dead
laid on a cold plate
watching the mendicants
offer olives and oil
to a god
who cannot be bothered
to laugh
(January 25, 2021)
subtext 