bad try

the imprint of my limbs has been understood;

made script, made mean.

faint over epochs and thin through inches of mass

clues come easily enough, diluted and proverbial

but mark my words, marks on my arms, marks above my head,

if my true mouth could feed itself –


on a sticky note

i sacrifice my own narrative, distrustful, kicking dirt across it like an image, obsolete – a bundle of theories and expectations that fade into lines and angles as a warm hand makes contact,

as a face grants me a smile,

as words become heavy in the air I breathe

I do not breathe the image, the fantasy, the query