CXXI.

and so this begins to become a story.

with all its conventions —

and i don’t know what you want from me.

and i don’t know what i want from me.

where the streets are water

a cologne like the sea’s burning foam

walkers of my kind tread the earth alone

pages.

copy. paste.

i am leaving

like the branches of these autumn trees.

strum

a chill through the joints

medicine of trying