by Lars Avis
in a house with charred attic door-ripped-off-hinge segues into the next
endings were smoked past their filter sucked down throat into stomach
faster than any person could escape i was ruddered dead center between
alexithymia and grief the all-breath-pulled-in-fully-expanded mourning
of february march april i kneeled to kiss claw foot chair while idling to
paint my starry night on slanted ceiling smearing deep blue acrylic with
marred wood grain against intuition i am one thousand miles away from
myself and as shriveling candle wicks mark minutes left behind i realize
not even the bloated moon will care enough to drag me away.