that was the year we all drank pomenade and played scrabble stoned. we woke up with
itches in places where we’d never felt them before and said thanks, I needed that.

that was the year of a century of endings, of towels slipping off the door, hair drying into
strange arrangements, cat claws on the kitchen floor.

that was the year we were assigned to write three poems before she got ready. this is my
third by the way, all paragraphs being individuals charged by god/there is no
god. who really wants to go see a bunch of rocks and a non-birthing birthplace,
a rental space for men putting upon women, steroids of war for the children,
murdered successes, the year of winning betrayals moved into the margins,
parenthetics, the brackets once sun scolded, song surrendered, substance
saddened. yes, we moved in, candy smokers, one room over and yes, yearly. my
response is not to respond. simply I give into my own tongue.