this wall of frontiers,
perhaps tears reaching back,
flowing in reverse. this
is no river. a backwater.
backlogged, waterlogged,
clogged sense of self.
some denial.
we can live? only
after the killing
off of certain selves,
those parts of me,
them hopefuls.
hope fools. shapes
shift. scrapes and scratches
a living. this hope, full
of poverty. a pot empty,
nor pissed in. this then
is what is called
life? give me then
death, so i may see
what i’ve been.
missing.
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