As the World Grows Tired

Meet me inside the sounds
which are growing us sick:
that shrieking microwave,
your cell phone ring, the cash
register emptied of real
currency, the defective lighter
you’ve kept, a heart
measuring its own failure.

You pretended stale lights
could make us free, as you
kissed me in a uniformed
parking lot. With exhaust
pipes sharing our breath,
tasting emptier than every
belonging we’ve deemed
worth having.

I would lose all of it to see
the hole of a subway more clearly,
to understand what force tangles
birds into cages. To stop
meeting the sick expectations
of beehives.

I don’t want the news,
I want what’s mine.

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