there’s an ache
in old poems
that i think i’ve lost…

the words falling out of my brain
hold in them a pain
of trying to find some sort of connective
tissue
through
to others in this stupid experiment we call
human
existence

and what happens when everything becomes
happenstance
what becomes of the worlds words once i built
brick by brick
letter by letter
when the better /half/ of me
plays into capitalism
to make our lives a bit
stabler

i read old
lines
older
stanzas
and a common thread appears
a subtle but strong undercurrent
to understand and be understood
(and might i still have that
now?)