Work Text:
okay, here's the thing:
I have run out of words, all this poetry inside me turning
to deaf to blind to numb. the thing is it's dead,
an organ misplaced, a storm in the interstate right
where they left us. All I have been thinking about is
how I read somewhere that angels don't have hearts,
maybe they ate them whole, tired of carrying them around like deadweights.
Is this the summer you were talking about?
smoke hunting into dead lungs,
happy but in the wrong places.
I am aware of how I am using too much dead and drowning out that little light.
Do you think we can stop
at that last place we visited?