I hate how syntax connects me to shit, or say the day is jeweled and burning, the fires banking, and none of its letters produce the horror at the heart of the index. The old document hangs over the twinned stair of murder and something else— that original slap of glove.

The project is archival, all that blood in the mouth. The old language could have told you, it’s too late, we watched you die, watched you move through shocking losses and the solo flight you are taking back into the old language.

It’s the same but different, different now. The mouth knows the bit, the taste of it.