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
noticing
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
overspiced
overstimulated
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