and you shed your skin,
cling to the pieces and consume them
like sheets of grocery-store seaweed
in the air, you become something other than
yourself, tissue-made torc-body dressed in
crown moulding and a sweatshirt
you watch some mother who is
crying to the kisses of a romance movie
in a way that makes you think she is either
loving someone or losing someone or both
and outside your window the world
is pooled below you, a pangea
who left her laundry out to dry
on a curtain rod and remembered to
forget it so she could watch it fall to beautiful
jagged pandemonium. this reminds you
suddenly of everything that never was
that you are in the middle of nowhere
wondering about nothing
that, as your exhales cloud into a
being of stale-breathed death, you are lonely
in a crowd of subliminal messaging grasping at the
diary entry of what it is you wanted to do, where
you wanted to go, how you wanted to live —
it eludes you. that you are one
of many such travelers, driving a paring knife
between the stretch marks of this wavering terrarium
and searching for a destination in the afterbirth
and that in this space where time loses
its name on a sonar-less shout,
you have only ever been trying to remember
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