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Katherine Paist Jan 2013
I fall in love quite
frequently, in glances with
those I’ll never know.

To exchange awkward
advances while predicting
this too will plateau
Katherine Paist Jan 2013
I long to act, to lack
discernment, to take,
not earn it and not care
to explain, because
my bones are rigid
matrices, growing
brittle from empty
inertia. I wish I wrote
the way I used to before
professors slashed new
line breaks through
my stanzas for the sake
of aesthetics.

The voice my tongue
used to carry now resides
in my head, fragmented
but organized to the eye.
I can’t fix this.
Katherine Paist Jan 2013
So long as there’s society there’s much to haunt
and hate. So long as the world has its cages and
everything has proper place the future is no option
until the streets are dressed in flames with torn
pavement roaring as loud as the voices dancing

where nothing’s left empty–their bodies, the buildings–
all glowing, negating the inert night. And when
the walls turn to ashes, they’ll dance in a flurry
to kiss the ground as if smudging their past lives
off surviving maps.
Katherine Paist Jan 2013
I’m no longer looking
forward (to anything,
anymore) and for the past
twenty days I’ve spent
most of my time engaged
in staring contests
with tabletops and ceilings.

But I’m smiling at the cracks
in the sidewalks—the sidewalks
we share, where I’m too distracted
finding beauty in the destruction
and the life that grows from it
to ever notice your ghost haunting
or your shoulder brushing mine.

I am amused how we can still
inadvertently share the same path,
it's similar to the sickness I feel
towards sharing roads with cops.
Katherine Paist Jan 2013
apparitions and
how they’re haunting:
because I feel like
I am scattered across plains
as if my cortex was tossed
into a disposal and shredded
so all could have a piece
of me to pick
Katherine Paist Dec 2012
I hope when
the end of the world
comes, I do too.
Katherine Paist Dec 2012
What I would give to
be a lone grain within a
Sahara sandstorm
a fragment of drought
scattering itself across
nowhere, singing with
the slow erosion. I long
to be this, to be loved
despite it. You’ll always
drag your fingers through

how many grains can
the gusts steal before
a dune is gone? There’s
no such thing as a static
state: Everything dies
still nothing rests.
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