the lilikoi
vines pull themselves
through the
windows, thieves feasting on the stench.
this house festers
in its own loneliness
and
releases itself back into the world -
there are
no children.
now, you
are doled out here and there
soup and
bread for the curious
in a box of
photographs, gathering dust and
dried up
millipedes.
you leap
from the aircraft,
shoulders
pulled over themselves, and
hurtle
toward the land, divided into
infinite
identical squares.
gravity
leaves you
