you want to ask about inspiration
without asking what’s become of
the ones before you:
imagine me
currently walking
in perfect rhythm
with the
industrial moods unsteady like
my block: concrete cell lined with glock teeth,
warehouses lined with
broken windows thirsting like plants for a peek of the
tremors of the train i barely caught
while i paused to fix my brow, bun
lips and the
other ones.
mud on my boots,
snow on my tongue,
your white whispers
like tiny quivers of attrition
eating me, slurp the finality
of requited love.
voracious stomach
prowling to
the vibration of
your brawn visible chest
breaking in some quiet place
to let me
–your hungry little ghost–
back out

the lines of my veins
with other people’s
last thoughts,
last heads on pillows,
shared stories, tea,  beds,
and the repeated
of a door unabashedly
slamming shut

my spasmodic heart
hurriedly smoothing the pulses
the creases in her butcher skirt,
electric smooth ponytail,
and your waning
smile into a content set
that never moves up anymore
imagine me
in perfect rhythm
to the cracks
I made in us
searching for some





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