Monday, February 8, 2021


Having long since 
grown nervous 

what truths 

our eyes might 
be expressing 
when we aren't looking,

we have sketched ourselves 
into cartoons—whose 

frantic expressions 
are always 
good for a laugh, 

and whose 
grinning white 
skeletons might 

their own deaths.

In the end, it was only 
the stillness 
that killed us. 

The only way 
we knew to head 

for home was 
in a hurry; 

on this fury (and not 
on our affections) 
did we depend—

who would readily 
call ourselves "blessed"

to be 
all made up 
of tiny sentences—such as: 

Nobody's perfect. 

Stupidity tries.

This changes nothing.

Truth is, I lied.