Thursday, January 29, 2015

poem for the wire stitches

hopelessness
in all things
the poor and
desperate
on manus
eyes that do not see
poem for horror
for the privilege
to name it
and not starve
poem for myself,
of course
— words opaque
and stale
the beetles gather
at the edge
of the window
praying for tears
my chest sinking
deeper still