written By
Everything is still inside of
itself, and I’m looking at you
through the fire again. My
blue hydrangeas are wilting in the
larger shadow of my pink
hydrangeas. There is a circle of bridges
at the end of the
world, connecting themselves
to each other — this is all a selfless
effort, they think, but they
are wrong. Metaphor is the same
as them. The fight for liberation
is the same as them. The anguished gasps
of dying roadkill continue to rhyme
with the bolts and screws
being worked into skyscrapers
and hospitals. Nobody understands suicide
in the same way that nobody understands flight,
but we are happy.
