I’m no longer certain
that the ground will hold.
Evidence flocks.
Sunken perimeter.
I swallow biography whole,
life picked clean by gut flora.
In this instance,
we are but incidents.
This isn’t a test,
but a trap.
Clap once for yes,
twice for help.
Gaze thwarted by cold introspection,
colder snows.
What if the mind
is merely a function?
Adjunct disjunct.
Connective tissue.
The reissue comes at first in waves
before tapering to a ripple.
One good pogrom
deserves another.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 