Winter, 2013–2014 / No. 31

The sun keeps unravelling

the yellow string through the eye

of my navel

until cold and wet-less, I sing.

There is music here and I know it.

Born in the bone, a melody

strung to absentia’s music

through the fog-smoke I cough

my mad expletives through.

Fucking disappeared girl

I am tired of them.

I am tired of the gone.