“it was for the good of the cleaver in the middle of her”
when i say with crooked intention; your squint suits the way
you wear yourself, timidly
i flicker between deaf and familiar, then in the depths of that
eye, a door closed
i know, because i’ve been read by each
darkening inch
you number to letter to scratch ratio on the far frame
we laid under trees to watch them scurry
laid under trains and watched them falter