desk

pure acceptance
                            we’re at the frontline 
                            of the exterior 
it’s too late
you claimed birthing 
                                 ordinary detail is
disaster and a freudian game
                away from the climate of things
the love affair on TV is play
                                  it’s control
seated, standing, lying naked
on your desk.
                                              silence
                                              a breath
                  yes that’s me,
I need this.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2026

Poem

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