To Someone Who never reads this.

an effort to supplicate
nothing
so close as this cloth
my life held on to
and so sick
of justice
never the same twice

not stopping to bellow
only telling
a short breath
my heart
a raw egg
runny,
clear.

think then
of beds
think you us
a sadder tale so
much
the sheets twine
tomorrow into
a now

we long for it.

the crest
of all
flying low
dipping
emasculated
a books pleasure
only

in the who knows?
places
stop wandering,
I cannot go in after.