chasms raze in tangled seaweed water i conjure filth above men. i say, "this is all i've got." she says, "more poetry, please." each year our family grows. we do this thing where we build a poem. it's full of 4:00 a.m. chasms and available to all who need to touch it. i don't know if it's the rhythm, but something's got her feeling kind of volatile. when she turns her head, there's a stranger on the sofa. she's singing empty garbage bags to my son. i don't know who i am anymore. 250601 what's it to you? who go blather from