existence for existence’s sake
some kind of renegade
attic life / development of
a kind of studiousness
small scraps of dead skin
on your cuticles
hair falling into an
already limited field
of vision
living in a past for
the present’s too fresh
the future devoid of
a sense of an ending
writing on your hand / how
the ink enters the bloodstream
like a literary vaccine
slowly seeping in
live and willing to serve
