The sky feels like a k-pin
doused with some other shit that’ll kill you—
infectious harp.
 
::
 
The space between language—
shard of porcelain
from the dictator’s house.
 
::
 
Looking back—
so many lives like veils undressed
in the sullen dark.
 
::
 
Names etched on my heart.
 
::
 
Be grateful, the whole future isn’t a skull—
blue silk in the grey matter
like water from sand.