hidden injuries of my ass
With so much docile stasis

forelit by facial logical code
a chance for prayer is

—questioning unflourished
accentless textual halos

over unconscious
skull-wrapped crowns of chill

The form of our medium compels
certain dramatic literality

jealousy among creations
in the beginning as (a thorny sprig?)

finding one’s place to stand
is out of fortune achieved without tears