A human up north howls on a thursday, slips thunderous moon rocks from beneath tongue into poet’s sockets. There is so much symphony in your satellite, how can one focus on mathematics or meals when you exist. There is no wall there is no lean there is only congestion of solitude. What do you mean you want to slide your memory behind my knees. We walk we walk away we walk around we walk until until there is someone who meets us and when that someone is found, there are splinters and cocked mouths. Enter storefronts: speak about what began before the scaffold. Call out a name when you wail against another and pregnant the heart to feel sight again.
Aimee Herman 