Yellow Sweater

My dusk is a disorganized rose,
adorned with raindrops. 

I lie in bed 
sorting the pieces.

We collect. 
Because in absence of the empirical, 
our logic.. 

Well, 
it’s a bit

Veni, vidi, vici. I came, I saw, I conquered. This is the attitude that allowed the Roman Republic to become the Roman Empire.

Paper and porcelain coffee cups were piled high on the counter, waiting to be washed or swept into the garbage. I sat on a well worn armchair by the electric fire, pouring over three months worth of bills.

Autumn smells like decay and release.  
Rotting blackberries  
and moldy leaves.
The spicy smell of the dying.  

The fog is wide. 

The wet air is wrapped around autumn
and its fire.

Words are pointed things that delicately prod 
the flesh of the living universe, 

Hello Stars. 
Are you awake today? 

until it blossoms and bruises. 

I have become acquainted with emptiness, 
with the hollow frantic shape of pure rhythm.

As I lie in bed, 
I anoint myself with sweat. 
And I decorate the air
with words worn as thin as my sheets.