I’m obsessed with process
and transition;
the form it takes.

metamorphosis; freeze,
soft hand on neck to liquefy to
precipitate, or the moment
before; just to
reform without final
shape. stuck.
or testing permanence
with concrete.

after all that patience
and miles of crouch
through the city;
knees nearly broken,
admiring chalked mortar and filling
the jacket lining
with lip gloss/little stones/change,
my ardor growing big and bright
and pulling things towards me
like the moon.

 oh,
to be suddenly seized
by my habits again.
a  soft hand on my back.
      it’s just one breath

that’s all it takes.

“the men”