Untitled
We’re not really in the same room
you sit there silently
selective isolation
spreads thick
with its pursed lips
pliable to the touch.
The men who dig graves at Evergreen
try not to think of it
as they chop soil
that imagines it will keep sensations of August
or the confusion of a morning caress.
The shrunken ladies
all but eroded
you know,
Christians bearing flowers –
They’re not in the same world as we
who are arrogantly vocalizing
on the frequency of nothingness.
I grind it out through my teeth.
The fraudulence of it all cackles
pulls the liquid silver
from my throat
and chest.
As it splashes up from the paper
I can remember the motion
the gesture in which the room was forgotten
me staring as magenta settled on everything.
I could swear I felt it
moving in your blood.