I see that wasteland on the horizon, and I know it will swallow me
and pull me under, throat first, soft hollow
hands sharp like hedge thorns and I will
fold and unfold fold and unfold. I see that wasteland on the horizon
white and gray, a folk song on the car ride home and it finds me hiding under the dashboard
summer covets me now, but you walked away and that wasteland, I see it cresting over
the retreat of your form.
throat first, soft hollow, my mother wears her hair down in the cold.
don't you love me?