they said i'd die on a hot night.
doors swing in october air, dying for sound and we go over it again: the dull lot, the silent round. i get hungry talking at the wind, watching the dry pots and cupboards, waiting for the word. i'm cleaning spotless glasses, expecting absent guests who never come here. i sleep deep in lies, waking naked to a marrying wish. what do i fill with? ive got the guts of memory in my mouth and the dream is simply its own meat.