—IF THE WORLD WAS ENDING, YOU’D COME OVER, RIGHT?

The Agony of Being

hopeful. Or maybe we rub

Our calluses. Against the shifting

Weight of despair. Testing

Gravestones for sobriety

And resolve. While the cyclone

Fence sags. Surrounded by weeds so

Thirsty they take hostages. Or

Maybe. Everyone I’ve ever

Loved gathers. To stare at my faulty

Shadow. Ghost skins in their hand.

Or maybe when I try to wave

My arms have been dissolved.

My song leaking sediment. Running

laps over the dead and stillborn.

Saying listen. Look. I’m right here.  

I’m