again, again.

by Michael King

what is growing
if not learning to trust
our broken fragments to
come back together
in the case we lose our
footing in the following
of our wildest whims

nobody keeps themselves safe
by trying to glance ahead,
pages flipping, skimming
paragraphs for clues, the
writing’s never on the wall
’til it is, ’til it
stares us down in
scarlet ink

won’t save my skin
by holding my breath, can’t
taste the truth and shroud
myself away at the
same time, sing to myself
softly, i may not know
where this road will
carry me, but these
palms are known in the
art of reassembling
a shattered self