Picture us palm-first –
we are only the poems we last penned.
Dropping sands of sound that fixed to these pages before.
Pararhyme with arrhythmia in timing,
to write is a conquering.
Spill out our coda,
retracing and making palimpsest
our favourite refrains in all the poems to our names.
If each new sound I tasted sucking my tongue
emerged glottalized and gutted.
You could take back your sibilance,
it deflates between my teeth.
If my brain were a drenched bog,
losing thoughts that I used to try to shake off,
we wander across if this is worth it.
To wonder through this white space or not to.
Whether I wasted over what?
“magnetic poetry” by surrealmuse is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0