upshot begets upshot, or so we like to think while washing out
the soapy mouth of a chlorinated culture uncrumpled, laid out to dry on
freshly stained rugs bigger than the available floorspace. in case

these words fade before you can commit them to memory, know
that they, in turn, have forgotten you as well. we all wonder why
there’s a key under the mat, food in the fridge. the cat doesn’t bite

its own tail anymore. you still bite, but only when there is just
a sliver of a glimmer of a chance someone might bite back: a lost
cause, such as weather, or lies. when the glass is one third or two thirds

or three thirds shy
timid inarticulate hour
transparent the glassy
edges of hearing to wit
wonder never quite wears off