Clean Clothes and Echoes ~this week’s poems~

the bland colour
in her face makes
the sepia nostalgia
of the other heartaches
as powerful as the
romances themselves.


each direction

takes me new ways

to the same place

where I pause

and consider

my spotless clothes

and what that betrays

about this road


Stuttering breath

firing between words

tell me everything

while the eyes tell me nothing,

because they stare

right through me.

And so I withdraw, I relent,

carrying that shudder

on my back, exiled

with my virus

to this old place

that makes ironic echoes

of the sweet and sad wiles

that used to feel virtuous.


their faces twitch

when they lie

like a bad tellĀ 

in a card game

and so I should win

but even theirĀ 

most shameless bluffs

beat sincere plays


My veins darken with the ink

that strangles the blood

to a slow molasses drip

that drains this young flood

onto my devils’ fingertips

and never are they more alive

than when a song of black bile

pools on my tongue.

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