The plinth slips, our fate,
too late we see the seismic
inevitability where
the caulk of our remarks won’t hold,
nor will our constellation,
torpedoes, or metallic corridors
still the lathe of arrival,
or the past boring up through the floor,
how we forget in our
amazing scrapes and episodic
sorrows how fast injury
becomes incarceration.





. . .

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s