I am the backs of everything,
bring me out
only in your holiest
of holy moments.

Consistent like middle eastern conflict.
The corner of the pantry holding the infinite consumer
The pound of the waterfall
slow, slow.

This grace is sick like
bringing some dark of disease to
every place God gave me
to escape to.
The Midas of somber sad
begs them all not to come any closer.
Curled up to process, process, its such.
Each cry stops the tracks flat
everyone please remember to remember that you’re forgetting.

and remember too
when you’ve read enough to put the gun in your mouth,
to stop reading.