old old
this noise a burn
a rubber burn a dread
a rough stillness a scrape
        you feel me

birds are a million billion years
seashells are a million billion
and here i am thinking about sandpaper

the empty breeze

            and i want to go
home but your ground is
a slippery sand
not like the billion million year sand but sand
from the future because that’s what anxiety
is right

          there are no prospects
of falling through the cracks
of my burnt tongue
    undertended. hey
how’s it going

            tough and tender
like the stalks of your back
on a summer day in the midst of
an apocalypse that isn’t
a million billion years old

and in that apocalypse is a minor daily crisis

and in that minor daily crisis
i look for solid ground in the crevices
              of your breath
in your unsent exhale
in your lingering finish
in our refrigerated heat