Nic fits, the little fluctuations
in my otherwise flat emotional
geography. Twenty fatal hour
glasses daily, dividing the time
filling empty space
with their swirling whisps.
Brown-stained fingers fish
out another from a limp
soft-pack. Another disposable
morsel, tip kissed with another
disposable BIC, torched down
to the filter by another disposable
“I,” then cast into the gutter—
with the rest.
(Then a fit of hacking like steel striking
birch quashes any implicit poetry.)
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
Nic fits, the little fluctuations
in my otherwise flat emotional
geography. Twenty fatal hour
glasses daily, dividing the time
filling empty space
with their swirling whisps.
Brown-stained fingers fish
out another from a limp
soft-pack. Another disposable
morsel, tip kissed with another
disposable BIC, torched down
to the filter by another disposable
“I,” then cast into the gutter—
with the rest.
(Then a fit of hacking like steel striking
birch quashes any implicit poetry.)