ash spills into the velum again
of this aging sentience, possibility always returning to an end
days flit by among the susurrus
of calendared pages
and the evergreen’s leaves are
continually
falling, feeding, flourishing

how do they do it
weave circumstance between thumb
and forefinger, refracting fortune
mine are sticky with inconsequentiality
with each rotation the cloth grows heavy
under fettering eyes of expectation
sinking, warping, muddying
I tell myself I’m a rebel for sucking with abandon snow in spring
                                                               sitz bath
satin dress
                                                                 red lips
Men on the internet tell me they like me, then disappoint
similarly,
I have countless papercuts and
no good work to show


Amy Moretsele is a daydreamer who writes for that sensation of easy-breathing following word vomit. Her work has appeared in Fly on the Wall Press, Dust Poetry Magazine and Re-Side Zine among others.

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