Monday, 27 July 2020

barely air

down my back and combed through
my distilled spine i feel the agriculture
of your motionless, meaty, tears. 

wrestling with our open
veins and distant
blood maps we decided
early
that we were at peace
and love would heal our
black scars. 

invisible lines across my
torso and through my
capital nights;
new moon seed
awaits our calm.

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...