poetry reading
i threw your words to the river
skipping once, twice, thrice –
before the wrath of Poseidon
took the blackness of your heart
consuming every detail
(how many corners does the table have? none.
there was no table. only corners. wet. dead.)
breaking each and every link of the chain
that makes their way through the unhappy vertical lines
that once made their way through your table
(there was a table. in the corridor? does not matter. there was a table. somewhere. in a theoretical corridor that does not matter.)
a word persisted