Brush
strokes fading
Down
my backs’ change.
I
cannot force us backwards
Rather,
I will summon our art
Into
the fine lines of our lives.
Crafting
my neck around
Your
black tones;
I
am complete.
this will be my last poem
so that i remember. because before melted steel, there was hand-made, better, buttered words. we can decide if new spaces beneath me can qui...
