your words for the wordless
are strung like pasta necklace
snatched open my throat. 
galaxies didn’t hold steady
but your eyes did;
fuck you for this.
i am wrought:
the colour of rust and absences. 

strange satellite-hospital-corner-white
is stark pain streaked
across my chest
like bloodied skid marks on a wet highway.
there is quiet savagery here.
the leaves shake godlike.
do you notice this revolution 
underfoot?

Talk about the heart
as a primal thing again
you, who said so
in a letter stuck in analog.
you and i are older than the holocene.

thank god,
we were never magnificent.