tonight i’m winning one for the dark horses
beating away at that godforsaken sunset until one of us submits
and i’ll string up the moon, assuming my pulley system holds up
while i’m busy spinning threads conducive to those ends.

my heart is in my throat, beating a tattoo onto my vocal chords
i’m losing the ability to speak but my hands still say I’m
head over
heels over
(common sense)

how quaint, our volumes of closemouthed conversation
but perhaps we wouldn’t listen as close if we had the luxury of confidence.

though i am afraid you will see, i consistently scribble notes
you purse your lips move your hands lace your fingers into mine and when they ask me for all intensive purposes
over every inch of every application i transcribe that epithet--

is it a matter of gravity
or a matter of density?