There is a place for me somewhere.
To evade death: tell the body to stop
living; last forever as stone.
Wait for a better time. Disregarding the absence
of stars as disaster, we drew them all down
a net so vast it could harness heaven.
Then say the words to come back,
to feel the air again: how breath blooms
from a pair of calcified lungs, all our lives
sweet static from a dying phonograph.
The songs told us how it would be,
lyrics eventually lulled into a language
only dust understood.
The house we lived in was never cleaned.
The windows were always closed.
Renga with Monch. In which we just line a yellow paper with lies.