you sing on and on (and on) in the foreground as the meter aches and constricts; with its power, beauty, antipathy searing distances between us, hearing the becomings of null somethings
we reunite with the blankness of pristine white passages to break free from inertia
I cannot describe my infatuation with a split second the embrace, the longing of wordless writers and their unacknowledged cruelties
grieving over all this birthing objecting to their own last words the fresh blood of teething & the prodding of our sores