from Meanwhile (a Movement Missive Series)


Here I am in domestic bliss and blister. Sleep spurs tangles. I took a pair of perfectly, but they were yours. She threatened suicide the evenings I did not. It’s already inside you, and submission. Collections I hope to keep discretely. This year’s little sense. Your commentary: A twinned sigh across the airshaft. Dry crackle the blues. Soft metal. Buckled love.