our loveless art falters
in a storm of storybook romance
and the redundancies we replicate
have unhinged from loss

a look overcomes the storm
and it’s a look like pleasure
tinged with misery
the bright air filing slowly away

toward bluer climes without
all the weight that comes
from living with a psychic wound
wound up in blustery scarves

but are we not merely
the sum of our scars
are we not merely
bits of refuse deposited

in the primordial slime
tumid lust falls upon the shore
beaten by sullen waves
and it’s all gross and gluey

when we finally reach the scene
fingers in our mouths
digging for words
we’ll never find.

-r. miller

One thought on “2.20.19

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