there’s more than one way to escape
flesh peeling
from bones
then sliding
on down
a ravenous
whirlpool of
scorched
desert sand
& when
you exist
beneath the
old grit, it
makes sense
to grind
yourself
senseless.
sharpened sticks
jab bluest eyes like frigid
darts of diamond splicing
through the hearts of week
end souls—milky, gooey
orbs that brim with faulty
hopes & misplaced dreams
of stuffed & posed sasquatch
& squirrels from deepest,
darkest, unmapped space.
you’re drowning
& I’m a fresh-faced
flower forced to act
as a witness like the
barely floating door
selected me for the
future as the great
skiff plunged into
roiling, icy darkness
—a bar of grimy soap
in a scum-encrusted
sink, wishing for a
fingertip while
knowing nothing
good will come
until you simply
learn to float.
