we’re not going to make it, I don’t think.
not while the heart sits in a shadowbox.
not while we draw blood out of the earth
and all the worms die.

no,
it’s not a good place, not a good look.

the cradle and spool have come
to rest,
we were no good here anyway.
let the fish have the land, and the birds
take the sea. not much else remains—or soon
enough nothing will.
fight over it and spoil it, there will
be nothing left to take.

not while this stone place throws rocks at
the flesh.

not while the spirit swims in
a wineglass.

not while your bad luck lays eggs
and they are carried off
by ants and thrown off the cliff
to the jagged rocks below.

the world has announced itself but no one
listened.
the stars did laugh their dead laughter, though.
and as the street outside my
window sinks I think I hear something,
or I should at least
say something, but I only sit
dumbly quiet and watch

while the sidewalk bends
and craggy lines
are smoothed into circles

while blood starts to sing like
the abandoned stones,

while something made of fingers crawls up
from my belly and into my throat.