Seven billion germs and I’m chaste. I can’t make rotten or pretty
any of the moments that hang in my eyes pushing the air out of their way.
I took a handful of water and thought this is one piece and I watched
it drop without knowing anymore about it than I did while it clung to my palm. I put
its beads back into my eyes and quiet, so quiet, I breathed by an answer. I’ve
forgotten every epiphany I’ve ever had. I can’t make sense while I am wrung
out and hung by my ankles. Seeing things upside down, loosing liquid and unable to mend, I can’t
meaning-make. I leave my hand under my head to catch what falls.
I look up and think
this is one part
Meantime the moments spill and I can’t make them count