The year of the locusts abstracts itself
as I scrape up wings and build a nest
in lieu of a room in a Hungarian Inn,
eating the distant soup you will consume
through my brewing self-worth. Will
you hold up two fists and live a life
of logical fortitude: the milk of your
voice spills future insect carcasses.
Most animals repeat themselves but
a risk of recycling won't fit the size
of my shoe -- I must walk upright or else
fix another history that will let my trumpet
knocking in. Always locked down. Only
take the time to see what isn't before you:
the night of additional light, a seventeen-year
trembling and the face of copulation. Tonight
recommends full examination of the stars
and their planets, which when placed beneath
the sun's sky, we prove we are both certain to be.