to lick the skin of the water with a tongue
I don’t speak
the day lifts me up on his shoulders to watch
the varnished remains of our stolen narrative
the cement pelt poured over our feral skins
how to augur anything
but crooked miracles
anyway
to lick the skin of the water with a tongue
I don’t speak
the day lifts me up on his shoulders to watch
the varnished remains of our stolen narrative
the cement pelt poured over our feral skins
how to augur anything
but crooked miracles
anyway