This is not throwing plates, how
you ask me. Too late for that.
This is a whisper dissection. This
is a beggar’s hand in my mouth.
This is the quiet I forget in, shy
hiss of the gas left on. Wish with
this. This decanted antidote
isn’t fit for everyday use, you
with this inevitability, this
mimetic healing from behind
windows. This only on the road
minutes at a time, this falling
pose and these docile headlights
letting the water in a little,
this as you tell me. This world
you assembled. Your hand in me
that broke the surface, breaks,
these wars are worse than accidents.