under the stars…under the moon… he told stories at the campfire…i miss grandpa, the time before Parkinson’s and palsy…i miss the smell…the smell is what i miss the most
no one else has seenjaws eating jaws
catching in the inaudible
teeth as they are unzipped
incessantly chewing
taken aback by a missing quotient
moving with a nd a gainst g ravity
the logarithms decry the loss
it's just paranoia
an eviscerated messstructurally unsound parallelogram shifts the past
crevices of footprints
out ofcontext
and it spoilsthe radiation poisoning turning them white
time no one else has seen
subtly melting away
the metallic taste of blood is relative
blood relatives
their nascent fruit
moving
in the musty attic insulation
pink and quadrupling in weeks
was it self defense
no one else has seen
lifelike stillness that creeps across the surface of the colorless waters
only knowing jaundiced
yellow streetlight it’s spoiled fruitno one else has seen
so much that has to be eaten
who’s eating
better to touch the
campfire
burning off poisoned blood
who’s burning
with and against
a transient sense in the tenebrous blue
it could be blood entering the lineage
that's controlling the phases of the moon
the metallic taste of blood
no one else has seen
pulling the burnt skin off of the roof of the mouth
who's mouthstill struggling to chew that last morsel
no one else has seen
the air as it thickens or
the ashes buried
unseenwhat happens
to all the prayers and apologies
when they can't pull apart conscience
the radiation poisoning turning them white time no one else has seen subtly melting away the metallic taste of blood is relative blood relatives their nascent fruit moving in the musty attic insulation pink and quadrupling in weeks was it self defense no one else has seen lifelike stillness that creeps across the surface of the colorless waters only knowing jaundiced yellow streetlight
it’s spoiled fruit no one else has seen so much that has to be eaten who’s eating better to touch the campfire burning off poisoned blood who’s burning with and against a transient sense in the tenebrous blue it could be blood entering the lineage that's controlling the phases of the moon the metallic taste of blood no one else has seen pulling the burnt skin off of the roof of the mouth who's mouth still struggling to chew that last morsel no one else has seen the air as it thickens or the ashes buried unseen what happens to all the prayers and apologies when they can't pull apart conscience
