EVEN THOUGH I’D RATHER
and the cold is everywhere, now, somewhere, but he is home at last.
paperclip collects desire, like building snowbanks
or the steady accretion of useless things that i retreat into.
home is where a hole is, the edges ripple in the breeze
or the skin of a single celled bacteria, the dream i’d become
tomorrow’s fallen behind, drawn too close to the heartbeat of the sun
or too far from the gentle pull of the moon’s desire
but even the stars have less eyes than i,
and even the stars have less—
notes: the title comes from tiffany’s “of the hours that we wait”
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