that love we thought we had
is centuries old
and centuries failed
and there are only so many words that haven’t been arranged
artfully and articulately enough
to be considered
interesting—
isn’t that interesting?
the new and the old the
timid and the bold
—there are all sorts of people, sure
but they are all versions of the same ones
so that in this contrived
circle of [seldom present]
consciousness
the spiral continues on and so
we do
too

I refuse to
speak
but I will resign to
whisper

don’t you want to can’t you
breathe
wind you
thief

but, lips should remain linear,
its a rule
one hundred eighty degrees
its hot in my head but i
do not say
anything

her hand pressed upon the glass
she looked from outside in
he had turned her inside out
but forgot to reverse the sin