haunted by the greatest poem that will never be mine
i sprung across the centers of mirrored versions of myself
the first one i saw was a barefooted town drunk with a twitching pair of lungs
the second one never lived half the age of the original plan
the third one in a scene my heart couldn’t bear i skipped
the fourth one hardly mattered, it looked a little wiser than the others
and the fifth
and the sixth
and the seventh
and the eighth
and the ninth
and the rest
all looked just like me
all bestowed the same fate from the third:

Mette stole all possibilities as our consent
gave us blind gratitude from it.
i came back exhausted
realizing that the fourth version was more becoming. . .