the blue bamboo print on your white shirt
wrinkles me in to
home

(hand over heart) this is a right.
(forefingers to the temple) this is a privilege .
( both hands cupping the stomach) this is a fight for survival.

it mattered.

the salt_white sun.like a flawed promise amidst the chalk.swath of a sky ,the dry cupric oxide around the circles of
city
eyes

a broken baby carriage under the train platform :
a husked substrate for the gathering
ice .

the thing that’s feasting upon the things that are feasting_
the gut cauldron .
the soup of you .

we are that longrunning society of graverobbers
and with every stitch,we all amalgamate true horrors out of eachother .emboldening the regurgitated fears of the dead and thedying.the salted roads,crisp up the cold and crystalline paths forward .beside your dehydrated, astronaut-food smile_and (never)dog-mother eyes
.i am the patina over all creased things
.i am the creases

by the stories it’s people tell of the
past