By Morgan Jensen

the man lying
on the concrete gritting
his teeth while it puddled
around they kept creeping
in closer, surrounding
holding onto a piece
of paper with symbols
he makes out an x while
it wants repeating it’s warm
everyone trenching it’s
curling around the fluid
the singing wisps of it.

i’ll think of viruses, think of
bugs, some pictures look
allright, i want to see some
things you can’t actually see,
i held my stomach in my hand
while i was talking to myself,
i squeezed the window, i think
of a page in a book with
widespread letters.

his pattern twisted,
mechanical, birds flying
there, left to fate as if
you believed.