Skip to the who: My self,
unfulfilling prophecies I’ve kept on the shelf
with those spices I never use (Cardamom,
white pepper, cinnamon,
saffron and thyme).
I’ve a tasteless time’s end in mind,
without the means to kill it.
My mean stare can’t hold the quiet
still, to replace it. It can’t quiet the still
repeating tics below these eyes. Filled
with their empty visions, my mouth
what ingredients the pages can hold on to:
inkless impressions, a thin, shapeless blue,
the browning edges. Here the years crept in
wet, to undo them.