Part of a poem I wrote today

I walked into the river that night
wearing your voice on my wrist.
it was the same year
we filled ourselves with fresh marrow.
I wanted to fall in love that summer.
you wanted to die with your body in blossom
and come back as the frozen stillness of the moon.

25

the dead live in whispers

inside the grey barns
the owls hunt the moon
and carve dark temples
into the earth

wind struggles against wind

every night
the brave fall to pieces
they call the others
who arrive confused and hungry
like us
they fear our stranger’s voice

at work
heads crowd the hallways
and hands slumber, freeze
like carved stone

each failed attempt
becomes today’s disasters

Existentialism

A diram was driven to suicide for seemingly no reason. He did not make the evening news or the internet.