in the riverbed
i bend to wash my hands
as water-worked stones
in the forest
i scratch my face against the ghost of moss
constricted upon the poplar's coarse bark
as the morning lifts
i breathe
readying my bloody heart
oh, my dirty dirty soul
oh, my one tooth in time
- living
somewhere there exists a quiet and empty room
it calls me back through the slag of my matrixed marrow
yes, it says, one day, yes
perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow
