Never trust a bladder infection.
I only learned this
upon further inspection
of the dactyl hymns
we’ve been humming since day one.
That was a day of discreet murmuring
and plexiglass palaces poking at prose.
In all but four states,
every rose dropped its thorns
in a casket of steam,
eyes trained on the desperate dream
that had been their sustenance.
We wore our incompetence with pride.
We turned the tides with a trick.
And now it seems
I’m bearing the guilt of that sickness,
staring at the shifting shock patterns
as they play the politics of grieving.
The hollow heaving of history.
It threads my blood with bickering.