“Some nights on my porch,
I’d look up—
at what? Things beyond
words. Stars
monotone in their beyondness.
Synecdoche without
referent…
Isolde
like a black stain. She
did not wash, forgot
how to speak except for her
rumbles of doubt
the boom of her solitude. You know this decay, how the body becomes
a clot of expendable
cells”
Connie Voisine, from “Apart, Away”
(via journalofanobody)
