Weapon wants , she purchased
to drill herself deeper/ a bit of a connection
into the bedrock, ORTHOGRAPHIC
a sizable amount of dynamite
on, scrubbing the love out of the human.
people are dying.
We all die for the wrong things.
It is the love for the metamorphosis.
You took the creature down
and coiled it around your neck,
still passing me the encrypted note.
pacing the tiny apartment with subpar footwear.
I can see a path being worn in the thin bare carpet.
a product of this digital age.
I pulled out the Yeats and found you at the door stoop;
you were pretending to be real –
fresh from the cement mall.
I want the hand of the maker to be seen.