only echoes stumble their way
back into the steely silence,
your fingers fracturing
the blue, here is peace bottled
for you. something of unused
poetry that carves a hole
into the skin, with pressure,
sometimes i think i am nothing,
limbs used like a constellation
to fill the spaces in a sky of
pretty, sure-of-themselves substances:
suns, moons, asteroids. ha, i am a
star in the cloth of a black hole. see?
don't i sound sure of myself? i
need you to tell me i sound
sure, because in the end it is
always me who seals back these
fractures, not you, not her, not
him, me me me. it has always
been me who can give me
what i want and the whole world
can just watch as i'll find a way
out of these scalding clouds
made of out genius improvisations