speech rustles its child's moan
from a trapped place below my weight
saying something sensitive,
young impulsive incoherent
something close to me fumbles into those water sounds
during sleep-starved nights,
i am low resounding.
a page like political landscape
all over me traces of invasion and misnomer
someone is threatening me from a cache of cold rhetoric in arms...
it's not too late and there aren't too many words here.
theories i can't communicate through simple terms
in bedrooms with more than myself
my lips are my own location, unread, undefined
keep forming, in formation
in secluded spaces, torn-off pieces
of articulated knowledge of self as it pertains
to what keeps the pages turning