madness took my mother’s purse.  I can’t find anything in it that isn’t the information which led the student of history nowhere.  one eye is a double agent and the other

a suicide pill.  availability repeats itself.  angels marry.  I am directed to stand-in for what the future is a shadow of.  

his women are made of sand
but wash prematurely
ashore

carrying broken babies that stomach the glass ocean.  we share a friendship

charm, an *****, and a bleak outlook

for the featureless face.