Fault Whispers

“A skeleton’s mouth makes few concessions to prettiness.” —Jacques Joubert Because your mouth is violet and you cannot speak Because maybe I like Thursdays the way I used to hate baths, and baths are boundaries whose sharpness will be blurred with more information Because movement itself is a form of currency Frozen in articulations Because don’t indulge yourself in the idea of restraint The blackened patches could have been pubic hair on dead bodies, or simply the wildness of neglect without horizons or spaces Because it’s a comfort to know waste is the fuel of contradictions a knife rusted before its first use Because in the barest of rooms, nothing is comprehensible Neither fanatic nor mystic Because the first weeks of September came and went and the weather held Not woven by innocent hands Because this stasis is preparation Because you’re deceased, maimed or in Philadelphia