I need to find the words, form the ink into a shovel and dig into the fiber, filter the watermark of distinction.
I see four clean cut corners, an emptiness of resilience, form a salve from the crease and break the spaces between words.
You read this frozen, with a flat key hum, each breath is whir,
each breath is whir. I leave filler in the morning,
Like lint, curved out of the dryer, that texture of what was
and all that was left behind, a mechanical wool gatherer
who dreams of nothing.