as usual, we do not live eye-to-eye.
Everyone pulls out their technology and sits alone,
dicing, marring, rationalizing beauty into tiny pieces trying to Understand.
what you do not know: the quiet cloth is my dream
I glow with it, I grow in it, white-hot is the clarity in me.
Fear, the orangey-pink shapes that attacked me in the subway that night
were from your lips. And yet no one said anything.
Maybe that is why I have painted you all in vomit, for
we learned how to eat each other, but we could never
keep it down. All over the walls.
this time, we’re brushing to gold, raising spirit glasses
to our eyes and lips. To new beginnings.