The glass always recognizes us, until
We look too deep, in search of the
Throed spaces time dug in our torsos
To unbloom what’s left of flowers in us
In this tale of reversal
Thorn-stung by the memories of nothingness.
This is a place where a dirge always rummages
The body of a city for its next meal. &
I am breaking myself into fragments
Of metaphors to evade this war of bodies,
Because here, being a boy means being war,
Because poems are where I stretch beyond
My own body & they’re also where everything
Loose is high on the opioid of broken mornings.
There’s no healing for this horror except infarction. &
Here, no one is drunk on hope but dyings,
Which means, if you listen close enough,
A congregation is singing litanies in reverse.