really, the world is a small thing — I was an I
seven years ago, now I am also an I: rutted little
half-done dreams, the newest iteration blasted
through head, now I have someone
to tell about it. growing younger — I swear I
keep wanting oblivion: blasted down by
too big force, fertility or death. taking an idea like
taking the waters, or a new kind of latte, or
persona twenty-six: I will be
stone, earth — and slim — I have and will have
easily identifiable hobbies and willpower, a thing
that is myself that can be dressed and
identified. I will pour out myself
into myself, and be known, the asterisk taken
off and finally swallowed.
poem: surname
the last pavilion 