“Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once.” — Ocean Vuong*
To toil, a small spade
within the roots of an anger
on days when it is all I can do
to remain breathing.
desire ㅤ ㅤstilled pang
–cocooned relic
in remonstrate as living thing.
To pyrrhic feats of love
uneasy . . . this body
/ the scratch until you…
