A/N: It's amazing how much energy it took to churn out these lines (without setting them to the rhythm of "Remembering Sunday" by All Time Low, which has been annoyingly and persistently running about my head).


Feel them resurfacing:
shadows of quail, the straw hallucinations kept
so long underthumb;
for while I relearn the tao of Emerson,
you change your colloquial rhythm
and your
appetite is
lost in your fog-laden esophagus
and when I
turn to touch myself
I do it with your
shrapnel fingers, suffering your
scarlet artistry.

your voice grows coarse
with the scalps of Apaches and the
teeth of their children.

I listen for your naiadic sobs, as any other dull morning
they might echo across the tundra---
though all that arises
is the thunder of wolves.