I’ll make the bed and cut my legs

there’s enough room
for this mess
we’re going through
enough separation
time and space
in dirty noise
between dry words
in yellowed pages
about clouds
and consciousness
to make our match
love our tests
to plan out and waste
not enough miles
to stop it
with all these knots
in our heads
making us run
and not come
instead
train my eye
to understand
the affectionate

if I can’t make it through the room
how can you?

Labels: artform