{ circular breathing }

I’ve lost my pace. The one that raced in the nebular wild white,

is it still fresh?

find those tattooed tulips encased in mud. in the warmth of solitude their sweets
reduce. Unread.

It’s nothing incriminating, simple observations on

how

our rows of xs lined up in neon hues
wish the room would grow

too small for words.

so we lay flled, healing ophelias raised on the moon, raving

“it’s tedious work, rivalling the dead,” Because she is soon, and we make her still and we make
sure – never to question whether she was better off blind, or maybe too invisible.

I hate to look and see a classic: all that

tried to ft globe by globe, never settling

another unforgivable

rash

because we left her whole at the transept for
the impossibility of brûléed snow