A Train Is Always Stopped On the Tracks, and I Wonder If This Is My Stop
Who could have known the way the seeds would sow. The wind carries direction in its palm. Freckles the cheeks with the things that pass through. The dead ties a noose and we savor the taste of the throats beneath our teeth. There is still satisfaction in the wet of the flesh. Capillaries wear out. Pray we stop. Capillaries cry out. Know we can’t stop. The tendrils grow knee-bound. Learn the work in the breaking. The way they’ll still stand, post-fissures. We watch the lace that blooms from bones. Bind ourselves to the birthing. I love you in the hunger.