here in the south,
dying with
the ice.
But I am afraid to pursue,
afraid to speak
in my basement,
watching them flutter
and spark,
layered with dust,
becoming catalysts
for trauma.
And I know
It's from drinking
the ancient liquid
of those stubborn stars,
and I begin to
stutter
and think about some
Eastern religion
or tranquilize myself
with sleep.
I ponder about
dopamine
packing in our synapses like
those boxes we
moved from town to town
I am subdued.
Chemically, I
rush through your theories,
Mr. Jupiter.
And I fill with silence
I am inertia.
I am filled with colliding
variables,
My body is a white thing now.
