~drowning in the backwater
touch is a ritual
not a metaphor
it's a drunken migration
through my backyard
where the groundwater burns
where the air surrounding us
is mouthless & borrowing time
like circles of voices
bending echoes in the
unrelenting black
but as an aging mirror listens with
the trees
there is nothing more to hear
because the wind that was here
is gone
because hours long
night is dead verbs in an
uncrowded room
made of rain, made of breath
as we archive the scents of our ghosts
& I curl into a comma
my fingers are wet-knots of ink
with the burden of words
my body remembering when your body
was like summer & I was
an iris, unfolding
but now this bed shakes thunder
from a chimera sky
this bed is
heavy with bruised plums
heavy with you
lah 2.27.17 ©®
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