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Picture

Picture
Picture
Picture
EVERY AGE
​

that unwanted heirloom       i thought i’d lost       not sure why the
slow pace       weird shadows       plane passing overhead       sunset near
whatever touches us       touches       tender flesh       always running warm
last blooms under       a backlit development       hum along with nature
all of it      encompassed       or       just       your       own       hmm
where am i now       zoom zoom       older than i was
feels apt       slipperiness as a materialism       dreaming of some place
far-flung without masks on       some low wandering on the floor where
by choice i       sacrifice direct light for      whomever scratches my back
first memories       wilted by       the past       would love       any time
to attend to others       we share stakes       stories       cages       this
high tolerance for pain and secrets       indecision over new dawn
remember not knowing if       i’d never get one       more boredom
haha       companion in process       so cool       to not be lonely
touchpad       vibrates       utterly perverse       diegetic power inside
reconciliation estranged from the bodies in question       ex flower blossoms
clean dirt and       dirty dirt       nodding now       dead now       wake us up
with a splash of water       faint sounds       too many plans       no fear of
moving fortune around       wrong time unpaid       morning feels       like air’s
arrival       revival       rather old       not without self       liberated       how
does everyone hear       i don’t       my page       quietly out of frame       <3
    --------------------------------------------------------------------

WHERE
​

it’s a day for truce:
sundown pale and polluted
like an old apartment wall as
faded as any partition’s destiny
we seek its opposite sides
typical that I should hug the plaster

impermeable self-image
while you repot flowers
on your balcony
they adjust their stems
to avert the dark and
finding no reprieve from it
grow intolerant toward metaphor
in the asperities of your touch
or the tear of dead roots
or the shock of transfer
or the confines of their ceramics
tempted, yet?
will either of us be safe?
later, hunts point, a bus
that reads “corrections”
tells a lie
we might only know from jail
that this pandemic is an ally
to the executors of control
and a gif of a cop
getting smacked in the face
plays on loop in my mind
v tells me that I missed the real thing
minutes ago, regarding elsewhere
one moment, far-off silhouettes
in a travesty of recreation
the next, gone
is this still a conversation about safety?
The truce here is that we do not
rip the gate apart ourselves
rare croon of a gull overhead
there’s no way it sees this scary runoff
as water
or the asphalt from which it leaps
an island
I’m learning not to assume
the illusions of others
including a bird’s-eye view
that would tell us we’re inevitable
I’ve never felt so clear
no one is just you
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  • HOME
  • ISSUE 12
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP