The smoke, gutwrenchboil.
Our insides shift from serotonin / to broken and back
Right now what I’m trying to say is: I don’t think there is anywhere left to go.
Shot into me is the writing of someone I never knew who died in the epidemic.
we serve the convictions of swallows, / the roaches smile with the / thought
The Gulf Stream itself petering out and no one seems to say so but stewardesses