eresince

polysemous kneels and jaded, i curl ambiguity against the collapsing walls of ambigram. letters folded into wings and gone again. (maybe they're fluttering, gliding, soaring, drifting (away)) i cannot fly and nor can you. and my voice is clawed into the branch where i was born and i am not st. vincent; i cannot birth in reverse. no matter how much i try to carve the words out from my jawed insides out. but this love and sadness is baroque, climactic and dramatic. i look for you in the attic of my mouth and the basement of my hands-- i hear you in the corner of this dystopian (uni)verse and know better than to reach for you now, the room