“He who stands at the place, goes back.”
-Russian fortune cookie

I have a low murmur that reaches
street lamps and cracks them
with it’s undersnarl
that runs naked for miles
seeking something with a
warning and I hit
the corner as you are
walking up.
the light goes out
and a tire screeches
and a cyclist tumbles
and this city is full of
accident now.

you will
know me by my
fang-toothed smile.
you will see the smirk
open wide in the sun
into an open-mouthed
you will call yourself
mine and line your bed
with rosary to
stop me from coming
but I’ve already
been invited.
I will be around and
you will be
in tears by
the end when
you remember the
                   revenge is an interesting game,
                   how undiscerning rage becomes
                   when it turns red
                   the story begins
                   as you remember everything

when you remember everything.

“morphic resonance”


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