2.1 Many tiers make this world pillowed on stone many collect in their fear to strive. Yours the face aglow in the cold, precarious thriver in the song-stung dark. With glance and lip you collected me. Where are you? Alien hip I catch you out, refuse cheshire blazon, unpronounced tremolo. Now to step into the prints you left. Winglessly now to embrace your air on tiptoe, phonetic and misprized answer— know you me? Tease this mystery? Kiss, cats, for your dear dog am I, better angled to see you by night with eyes straight upward and by your leave to praise and praise.
First published in Hotel Amerika. Copyright © Josh Corey. Reprinted with permission of the author.