my insides (mumbled into white white sheets):

"bumble wings and dusky phantom smelling of wood at night stir again. o me o life. we were skinning the sky on pigeon wings with sea-tea on our frosty fingertips. such great depths from last june with tiny lightbulbs in the broad-leaved trees where we’ve grown."

something occurs: "but i have been sleeping. missed out. o no!"

hunch-ed over on hands, lit by the imagined light of the mink and top-hatted fireflies trapped behind a thick wooden fog that should be out of context, but somehow isn't. background noise, the best friend lectures.

THE LETTER

dear best friend,
i’m trying really hard. don't forget to wake me up for all of this.
please and thankyou. kind of yours but mostly just dumb and sort of sad still.
my signature.
(the i dotted with a craisin found in the crevices of the couch.)

you'll do fine































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the digestive system >