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| bottled words slurred from too much |
| pain and insomniac rituals of these |
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| unsuccessful attempts to relieve |
| myself of all this time and energy |
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| unable to wash away this virus crack |
| it open like a capsule and watch its |
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| tiny globes spill and meander endlessly |
| helplessly harmlessly into other orbits |
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| not yet occupied. my world right now |
| is a quiet world a dying world a blue and |
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| white capsule. sea and air wrapped in |
| a permeable shell locked inside like |
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| the virus itself that shall explode |
| from within like pocked skin. this |
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| is what it is like when the ink well |
| runs dry. when the noises from our bodies |
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| lose their voices and what we have left |
| is all this time hidden in a cell of gelatin. |
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