Not the word but the space after. Not the weight but the lifting. This corridor has no clock, this waiting has no waiting in it, a fluorescent hum with a smell of, an antiseptic pause with a pause of
pit Star of this soreness I laugh myself awake, sling deep into the heave. Straight out of dirt road walking and at capacity—this being the back-alley way; the heartbreak; the running away constantly.
Abecedarian as Ars Poetica Already this feels too much. The way a line can break anywhere. Here even, if we aren’t careful. Too often I’m caught off guard, having dropped suddenly from the place I wa