anticipation of nothing new
that's why it left my mouth
and is dead on the floor
between us trying not to bump heads
foreheads or clacking eyeglasses
to turn our faces at angles
all tried before
stiff sprained necks before
bodies wrinkling apart
folding into ourselves
caving in sluggishly
the ceiling lowering us
down into the worms
and the maggots
that suck the last
meaningless versions
of what we say
of gestures made
cadaverous language
by any other tongue
sticks to the roofs
of our shadows
- Max Stoltenberg
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