What’s Left

My time here is growing cold.
The unnerving that we are
simply a matter of taste.
They heap decay about the outskirts,
skittering days unlatch portents,
a rather ominous.
New modes of meaning are a possibility then.
We’d prefer to pat the backs.
Simplified gestures to match wits,
weather funneling, o porous.
You speak the vapors.
They make a witness to the seeking
and register piecemeal languishing
the happenstance of utterance.
I declare myself dissolving in the hum,
your wet heart, your thumping eye.

-r. miller

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