“My bones are not softer than average, and their pain when broken is sharp, hard. But years of injuries have taught me that bodies are soft—softer when wounded—all the way down to the bone.”
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Or maybe it’s me / who kneels, presses / my face to the green / cobbled floor of last era’s / ocean, the present’s / veins…
You have two lungs, but / when one collapses the other / cannot be pulled open…
At the end of poetry, we created a city map with layers all merged: / streets, the water flowing over them through sewers to Sound, topographic / cut corners, radio waves to cellular towers to cables beneath the earth, / a string of words.