you, before the curvature

(Pause the tape, feet pressed firmly to the wood, the trees to bear you, your breath the match, the scratch, the song.)

You, before the curvature, and lately I have fallen, that I feel like such a liar for it. We create the dark...we cannot stem the shadow while we chew through our own stomachs. I write this without that hunger, with a hand made of pearl, holding sideways, sparkling up like an army carved from chains.

Are you okay? You know you hold such light, don't you? I only write that you might catch when you are splitting up under your axes, your axis bursting as molten clung, with feathers flashing like glass, piercing break of ages.

Are you nursing your greatnesses? Your bold attempts. Your exquisite wreckage? All punched and licked with babbling charm.

Are you shifting now, the comforts of your collected refuse? (that smile scrunched, a small shiver of autumn.)

Are you remembering it? Are you frowning like a joy? Paper birds take from your hands, flickering.

You, are art, are grand, are ruinous, are crawl.

Please know, it is you. You might find yourself so common, crushed, swollen speckled egg. But it is you.

When filled with so much life it corrodes, spat in every breath.

When no one makes your eyes on the train

When love will not remember you.

It is you.

(I ran out of skin to write upon. The tape clicks.)

—Ian William L.