just like old words left-
your eyes give you away
like dormant artifacts
that carry the weight of falsified prophecies.
in your letters you “spared me the details” of cities that swallowed you whole,
citing the monopoly of american ignorance that senselessly consumed my ideals
and
truths
and the cracks intertwined between
the honesty of the rain pattering on an old tin roof.
rapturously rambling on,
textbook Rome motions for inevitable patterns drawn up by hands with fingernails like knives
no longer dull and complacent.
an excavation of sorts:
a plagued year of understated notions
and transplanted promises.