Does he have a face memorized
without the wanting of memorization? Is that
an argument in our ears? On a day more than
a day, reached with finality. His fingers
are molten,
we’re the bastard children of ghosts.
His words, you say the strangest things. Collapse
on us. Or us on him. Or everyone in a state of
sideways slant. By that time as events rapidly
evolve. At that moment when
we wear clay gowns and wade in a glass
pond, anxious to drown.
