I can’t
fathom you this distinguished phantom
or
terror to someone ill-gotten; while kindred
souls
too alive to live or too deceased to rise.
Others
soot our chimney or curse our cries with
measure
to increase our gore—this flavor in
molasses
those anxieties we share while you
empathize
with mother: another century, a bleeding
scale,
while fervor assails our intestines. I awoke
early
those snails were in me before I startled a
ghost;
so much noir or so much mania or feeling
comforts
by our features: blankets or quilts, fire
seduced
emptiness, such a daughter to see by
divination:
our blue-black discourse our hearts
gunning
into fury while kindreds speak elements.
