Trickle & Tone

She said, I long to shape
a moon from bone.

I heard that before,
somewhere—
it resonated. A chord
struck—atonal
& dissonant.

A wound—a pickaxe stymie,
a hurricane hole
in homogeneity.
Monosyllabic
trickle & tone.

Where
you going—where
you been?

I’ll find a planetarium
to bathe in—
nothing more
to say.

What I’m Reading:

“How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.”

— Ai / “Conversation”