the hot-fingered taunt
of a name picked up my
stomach in its safe
hands; knucklecracked, they boot
-ed it down the corridor...

do you remember
the sweetgrass scent?
i rolled from there down
the stairs of patience
to here, blind fear,

where clocks tick
an arpeggio of angel
texts; numbers repeating
until they desync -
your 11:12s. 13s. 14s.

there's no more walking
in polyrhythms; there's no
slide to Her. i have my own
two hot fingers and some
paper i will tear like hell.