of dejection

teeth bared like a hounded fox
beneath the matted fur
the soft center of his core

line of struts drawn back
the fall of manchego reducible
to jacket-ore and earl crust

snot runnin into his philtrum
like stalactites stretching optimism
he is the soft heart of dejection

he looks the morass in the morass
he is the morass

What I’m Reading:

But there are no grown-ups, that’s what you must grow up to know fully; your parents were just two more bodies experiencing landscape and weather, trying to make sense by vibrating columns of air, redescribing contingency as necessity with religion or World Ice Theory or the Jewish science, cutting profound truths with their opposites as the regimes of meaning collapse into the spread.

— Ben Lerner / The Topeka School