By | 15 February 2023

i am a sorry son weaving upward or
the spark in every raindrop shaken off somebody else’s web i—
want to sprawl across the stretching lifeline on your palm, plucking
at your favourite song.
Listen, i—
am often moved
by the temple bell rope coiling thick
around itself. i like to caress the fraying threads
and imagine it’s the pale fuzz on the back of a lover’s neck. Pull hard
and ring three times to call me home, the hushed buzzing an afterthought
to a long night.

I point my face towards the dripping ceiling,
observe that each nail rusts differently to the last,
which is to say that time gnaws at me and imprints
a different stain on each eye with each tear. My skin growing

cratered, i moult and hope to leave an intact shell with each season.
I am jealous

of that temple rope, entangled and disparate, whole in its swinging.

there will always be leaving. Mind your step when you pass through, there are too many
splinters under this roof. There will always be crumbling i— think i lost my legs
somewhere i—
can’t see the trail behind me. Am i—
crawling backwards?

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