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

metamorphosis– freeze,
liquefy and
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 broken,
admiring chalked mortar and filling
the jacket lining
with lip gloss, your ardor
growing big and bright
pulling things towards you
like the moon; oh
to be suddenly seized
by your habits again.

your hand on my back.
it’s just one breath,
that’s all it takes.

“the men” 

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