BEGIN IN NERVOUS YELLOWS

Moan, then moan again. It was empty headed
of our songs to overlay us with wet confidences,
grotesquely stretched to fill the room.
You bandage you.
Stop lying to her. She looks bad. She delights
to blow herself up like a glass till she see it break.
Chronic, like a god. And pastel wigged.
How nervous, immature and unable
I am to eat this beautiful donut. Kimberley
warned us about melancholy.
Doomed to murmur. To murmur against itself.
If you don’t like it, grow fingers.
The kind that digs out and then applies
fresh gold to us where it belongs.
To powder-over, over-power and finally to rest.

— Bridget Talone