August remorse. Fucking moths.
What once was West, is now mine.
Full-figured—not really—but full-fledged.
Out at Sea,
desperate to commit.
Don’t wake me in this questionable Earth.
February fix. It’s a slow winter.
Ask again later. But it’s not likely.
Generous without a cue.
180°. Believe happened.
It pulverized that shadow-home.
5:00PM becomes 5:00AM.
I’m caught in her electric diction
She’s short-circuited me
In the thickest of air,
my obligations are suspended
Name etched in muscle, in bone
She’s bipolar with my blood
and stranded on the taste of tangerines
Tell me, Plague Doctor, do they work?
She’s in my line of distress—
her heels clacking on marble tiles—
asking me to bathe in her lightning
But it’s a fearful thing to tread!
But she says, “Love, it’s all about how you bleed and where.”
She is how. She is where.