what am i to say to this,
sky wrapped woolly and wet over me,
the itch to pierce that tight skin and
to keep flying threaded in?
the shapes speak to us all day long;
we shun the silence of octagons.
what’s yours is mine: we share this space,
complicit in its undoing.
let it undo you.
let it give you firsts and lasts;
let it thrust itself upon you.