Even alone in our graves, we're surrounded by bodies memories seep through dirt like groundwater. a marble quilt stretched across our eventual bed what a dream we'll find death! deja vu on repeat in our heads: ticking clocks still clack after their battery heartattacks just reverb in your eardrums as real as phantom pains or the shame you feel when they state all your claims in my court of appeals. if we breathe, we receive the past's blessing we crave-- desire. demand: hungry open palms of our hands.
So I stroll their napping grass blankets my minuet appreciation for the invitation to your bed but my dreams are still too foggy for my heart to be dead.