October 20, 2026

quadrant

Have you been holding your tongue, afraid what will come out will set your life
on fire? At night, in the thicket of sleep, something in you bites at the leash,
then the hand pulling it. In a flash, you’re in the throes of such wild appetite,
your mouth puckers, waking you, and you stare into the thick veil of your room,
wondering what would happen if you sliced yourself out of silence. 
The mornings have gotten colder. You rise uncertainly on stiffer legs.
Time is siphoning; the credits are already rolling. There is no clearer 
window, no promise, no map. Just this one pass at the sheet music with notes 
you could never practice enough. Just this sloppy quadrant of cake and no 
knife or napkin. Just you and your hunger and your hunger and your hunger.