The past of having makes the present
Bleed and then we’re asked to
Forget it like imagined slights

My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended

I meant to wake up and had or had not
To the lines from an ordinary song
I saw my problem as that line

I have to tell my mother the night

is a house in which are no knives.
The heavens grow hell blue