Sequence interrupt.
The value is the limit,
the limit is the floor.

Why we even bother/false brother/
caustic line/spoken blood.
There’s something
obstructing the view,
fault or eternity,
the scent of whatever.

Two clasped hands, concealing…
A litany/weather cluster/verisimilitude.

Draw this water from the well
and partake.

Dry your voice, and sing.

-r. miller



No inspiration,
just fatigue.

The chemicals
aren’t working.

Fast forward –
to a borrowed blue.

Nothing left
of you.

-r. miller



Roaming, unsure
and this is where,
it slides into focus.
Soft in the lavender array.
Presently were we there
will be unnoticing,
these gestures
construed as instruction.
And so floss, marble
and ivory implications.
For I disrupt
what rupture raises,
and I steam plastic.
I go in gasps.

-r. miller



Later on, it transpires,
and how else shall I greet it?
This gulch, in recent memory,
was eaten up by ghosts.

Somewhere flickers,
heat smudged and dry-weary.
One eye remains clear,
the other goes bleary

when the fog regales us
with miscellaneous details.
Let the molly do the talking, we’ll see.
Too much losing for but one evening.

Dopamine in a minor key.
This could be just the distress
we’ve been looking forward
to overlooking.

-r. miller



Now I can feel my momentum moving on.
I can feel them speaking through the wires.

I can feel the lists of every feeling closing in on me.
I can feel the fluttering of countless seas.

I can feel my heart pickling in its own darkness.
I can feel my neck beneath my collar.

I can feel the rapture in the rupture.
I can feel her dreaming of stones.

I can feel the blistering infinitude, breathing against my ear.
I can feel the passion of sinners and the cruelty of saints.

I can feel the cuddle of corruption.
I can feel weird or ethereal, but not much else.

-r. miller