point of illumination

sitting on a box of squirrels smearing graph paper archives with bodily fluids

it seems meaningfully aligned with bit rot aloof
feldspar arrested in amber

something i recovered from the rubble of the present tense presented on mute

my eyes occluded by pellucid water easily understood to be thematic sludge

life only gets darker from the point of illumination this much is visibly blinding

life only gets darker
life only gets starker

tear tear tear until there is nothing left to shred there are only three words to listen for —

we’ve forgotten what they were

What I’m Reading:

Some days are measured by caesuras,
some hours by snakes in the grass.

— Alison C. Rollins / “Springtime Again”