1 New Poem

Bigger Things

Something to say was:
you taught me the difference,
between peppermint-vodka stings
of sticking throat in younger
dalliance,

those ways I always thought
it felt for boys whose shirts
fit bitter, who sat more
still, could focus on time
signatures.

Between all that and
stiff breach it feels to
not know what to call you
in tumbling digit-point,
except alive,

Alive in wan hues,
but without a word in
infinite scripts to call,

Making it so seeming bitter,
these half-spun living rooms of
faces scarcely held to minute
flicker of waxy imprint,

Marking the celebration of high holy
nationalists’ days, that scale so
far to stretch a sink water sky
itself.