little lamb
we cry over spilled milk. the world is ending.
now that you are here. I am there. now there
is something worth talking about.
one in a counting star. the wish. the demand.
the other is merely a sentiment that settles
in opposition to the lips and mouth. something
wishes to unravel here for the occasion and maybe
the battle is just the moon and its colliding stars.
maybe the difference was always to leave
before reality could gut you, and I think you
know that I am afraid of falling still.
I’m sure the rock formation where time begins
is a decade. the decade passes and you’re no different
than the last man standing. he fell far from his two-inch
pedestal. all thorns and vulnerability but the dining
was immaculate for the time being. when one ring forges
into the other, what happens to the rest of us?
you never ask, so you don’t know
that I chewed on mints till my tongue froze.
so the decade passed. so what? it helped in the impact
when my teeth clamped into flesh. the pedestal was
a skyscraper, so it took another decade before I found
my jawbone which lay mutilated and gross
curled up on the asphalt like a rib.