after the crash (Coalbrookdale)

rogue fader

I shade into floral tributes

diluting the perfume of dying

Abraham Darbys

 

yeah, I’d been raised by humans, too

too late now to do anything but

imitate their elocuted

grunts — like you, I guess

 

I’d prefer transcription

into their smaller worlds

their empty animal acts

like titles of movies

 

never made, biopsies that never

got to the lab

that could have been, and almost were

my carved out lives

poem studio