"asphodel" by Matt Yates

time falls back on itself,
fractured from the folding,
& you and i are left unimpressed
& wondering why the future looks so much like the past.

we eye instants with a bothered verve
and follow the faulty curve
of the thighs of forever
& never,
& never do we wonder whether
our touch is tender or

we call to ourselves with voices
rasp & lost in the din of exhaustion
which this frenzied world imbues
into our bones & into our actions.

but still, in the folds, lost and weary,
drunk on the love of seven billion scared & sacred souls,
we find the mangled moments & for a time may realign
& with a furrowed brow smile at the everything
& reckon ourselves lucky to be so lost
that there are tinges of time & emotions numberless
looking for us in the dusks of our shared modern mania