Doom like a vulture’s cry—a sputtering

flame choking on honest

water; a sea wave that stills mid-air,

crest and trough multiverses apart.

I think I saw it first, brimming in the

pools of your concealed pout.

You can’t fool me: there is stubborn moss

growing within the cracks of your voice,

your eyes bruised and melted,

making me feel like a wayward child

seeing his mother cry for the first time.

This is my last plea to you:

pat down the last few slabs of earth

into my screaming mouth and let

the grass grow from my bones. After all,

what else am I, but something

gnawed and spat out on mosaic floors—

A toothpick on a chocolate sample

Once craved.

Twice forgotten.

Never loved.


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