the bend of yesterdays. so young and vain and willing to forget. that the eyes can collapse into a waking dream. pointing inward and forever closing. till the dark days saved us from the blinding of the light. and those who refuse to cure will cure themselves of the desire to feel sick. and the necessities of sickness will prevent us from being poisoned.
my coiling tongue was born of the discomfort of a vertigo
spindled in the oscillation of a sky i could not name.
your self-portrait was like a blanket to a dream.
an umbrella in the rain.
and we would stare at our lives
through the concave lens
of a descending sky
and watch tomorrow
content in a mysery
that cannot be shared
or named.
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