The past decays

upon the present

like a pressed flower; fragile

and suffocating

inside yellowed edges

Petals for words

papered a sodden trail

in my throat and I’d take note:

emptying them out

one

by

one

from the deathbed

of my mouth

The shape of me:

indented and constrained

between the lines

now writes itself (and rights itself)

on the margins of truth