When I was a small

           

           century

I made everything


about desire. 


Now                  approaching the sea

           like a knife 


at dawn              the glare burying 


into my eyes I look


for shade. 


                             I’m trying to believe 

all I can without question.


It’s exhausting


                                 listening


to all the words and                      really


paying so much attention.

My ears

    

                              sag like clams.


The TV 

even when muted


           seems to scream longwinded

creases 


                              into the heart

my hands 


                              wrinkled


from bathing in too much time.


The TV                 a jail 

   

           I willingly enter


and stay until the internet feels 

itself


           growing lonely 

           and gorgeous. 


The sun goes down


           it’s canal of whispers 

           and howls,


my brain slamming 


                              like a fist of snakes


into light.