around my wrists dry moisture of what was before
the smearing of ashes spread across your sky
i am deliberate in these words and i have forgotten
how to be subtle in your vacant
eyes; remembering our canvas
on oil and knuckle sand.
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...
