Lauren Camp

of what we have, at last, is what is left. Fewer words

are proven, and I fail to guess the others,

undeclared. Swear to utter

only calm, leave off the cinders of my swallows. I’m wrecked

by a slide toward unforgiving

tricks, but of course, I steady through

the windy length of life’s next hurtling.

Every bit of logic has turned burden.

Through hope of hoping reason will return, no one

blathers on. We hover

in our endless grieving as the populace empties

instinct. I give accolades for some ellipses.

Try to speak a turbulence of thought. I knit

my hands to hear an echo as we gather dawns.

Once there was ceremony

to our arguments, and combustion, sugar, fuel. Back then

I was beset by my precarious little life.

These days, the hole of us becomes my home.