I hate how syntax
connects me to shit,
or say the day
is jeweled and burning,
the fires banking,
and none of its letters
produce the horror
at the heart of the index.
The old document
hangs over the twinned
stair of murder
and something else—
that original slap of glove.

The project is archival,
all that blood in the mouth.
The old language
could have told you,
it’s too late,
we watched you die,
watched you move
through shocking losses
and the solo flight
you are taking back
into the old language.

It’s the same but different,
different now.
The mouth knows the bit,
the taste of it.

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