Steven

Hey poet in Chicago, did that whiskey swallow you whole?

You suture cardiac arrhythmia with words cause it’s still a pulse

Stitching sentences like thread through leg shaking, nail biting, grey to hold it all in cause it’s still a rhythm

Your visceral stanzas clamped between my teeth

I could taste the burn of your bourbon and smoke

A vein to carve some lingo whilst trying to find the right word to rhyme with “cope”

Defining the shapeless light in a classic high tide of this is what it fucking is so

…

(Isotope) Steven?

(Grope) Where the hell did you go?

(Hope) One day you’ll open that old email and I’ll tumble into your lap

(Interlope) Years of off-again, on-again “how ya been’s”

(Misanthrope) no reply

(Cope)