I hide around the corners
to counteract the sound,
that final missing click
that signals I am naught.
Corners that will not catch
me in the throat
like coming to the grave middle piece

Empty-handed. They’re all but made of peace,
being already solved, sit cornered.
I hide and listen for the sound
of trumpets, hoping that belief will click,
for without that blast it is for naught:
the poring, drugs, cup, throat…

the joy that makes a knot in your throat.
Like my smooth body lodged a jagged piece
of the round world made up of all corners.
An empty-throated click sounds from the door jam
piece not secured. From breath to breath we breathe to breathe
till death
and each day believe a little less, believe a little less,
we believe

less.