into a world i had created
in past sleep somehow
emerging suddenly from the deep
warm depths of a womb
that was yours, ours (now
defunct). and barren was i
and dry as these lips and cracked
and raw. a sour umbilical
hacked with rust and blunt
lay heavy on the floor
among the detritus of
words (also ours, once)
of this, this
so-called poetry.
