It’s never been about me,
the litany of the undertow
a literature of the outsides
the scheming between skins,
a story worried away in scrapes and
whittlings, this voice of wounds wormed
through the earth, this want for
words and reason. It isn’t as if
I knew, unaware as I am of
the endless implications,
how it seems or sounds,
my laden tongue and untuned
ear wearying the world away.
Each day the grave I’m digging
an emptying of eulogies
imagined, artless and alone,
as the world picks these bones.
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