Basics
If it fills myriad fissures, can it
be false? It is not my job to jab
at the crusts of comfort you've
installed as integuments. They
will excoriate on their own.
It is always about you: Itch in
the affinity. Brittleness of your
being has me breathless. Had
you inhaled this, I would have
wheezed another kind of poem.