is a means of studying the chorus—with the hum

becoming nothing but teeth re: the rustle of 

our bodies, drawn by the same hand no longer

the product of symbolism yes, God—this tremor 

is as real as it can be. at this point i can only leave

the party with so much of myself—the rest is in 

my silk dress. at the corner stands a mcdonald’s & 

a group of white boys w/ cuffed jeans and enough 

smoke coming from their lips to burn the whole

city down. only in my drunken dreams does the 

boy i love ever say sorry—he smiles after, he leans

forward, he plants a kiss somewhere, he wakes the 

world : sorry sorry i’m so sorry i fucking love

i’m sorry i’m sorr—come here, you’re strong enough 

to beckon the songbirds, too. the act of forgetting

means the act of being a poet. not much else swallows 

the light the way it’s supposed to. i remember,

now, how the state cleaves a country and how 

the lilacs foam into a space the holds us—

arms muddied in dew muddied in butter

 

muddied in dribbles that have yet to be

mopped by our tongues. the cold has 

started to snake into our kisses & what

remains of touch is only a knuckle 

waiting to be tapped