Sunday, June 7, 2015


I need you, this is not a confession
I make at midnight to let you 
take apart the distance between 
where I place my pen and the language 
with which I think. There are several voices
in my head, all with a difficult tongue
Too foreign, this intensity 
to my body sweltering with baked dew 
there are things we retain for reasons unknown
like a longing clipped into little sounds
like madness and rush
of the good times coming, into soundbites
midnight flames and round bread to stack 
on empty stomachs.

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