from, Haunted Forest

VII. She Made a Place to Sleep Inside My Ear

The walls of the house have become
the world all around & everything
an excuse to do
nothing & she is fading
from the margins & we become
inconceivable to eachother.

Despite common appearance, our words
have roots in different sources. Exercises
in mis-reading. The way moths fly
like they’re broken.

This entry was posted in poetry.

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