my questioning,
directed at myself
and the answer simp,
not necessarily simpatico,
cause the answer is either
today, or never,
could be
both or n-either

yeah,
of that age,
when I awake
first two words are
*******, again?

and
if I hurry,
one piecework,
one mo’ poem,
hurried,
may yet be
vented,
scurried,
aired out
or for
quick disposal
sad dispatch

one mo’
disgorged poem
within and withouted,
either side
of midnight

been gorging
on letters ever since
They fed me
sugared letters
& lemons
for breakfast

and the last twenty
sending them you
in a disembodied
softly softly
voice
no matter how
far your imaginary
ears are from me
Sunday AM 9:52 2/19/25
🥲