If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?
Mary Szybist
3.
Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.
Mary Szybist
4.
Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.
Mary Szybist
5.
You can’t have two worlds in your hands
and choose emptiness.