we’re up 18-0, too bad it doesn’t count. i’m there in spirit,
someone says, clinging to his little piece of nothing. muted field
mown brown to the dead who swim underground. every passing
stranger hooks to every passing stranger—anger, the sea. history
of some “pure present” we can wave to in the window. both arms
are acceptable. the history of how to swim begins with drowning.
our mannequin comes up for breath, it's monday. we chase
fragments. we will never kill all of these fascists. we are a
they, looted, so go ahead and cheers with your water. that’s
the heart holding out. that’s some pete rosey shit, you say.
you whisper, without a contract, "i have no bosses in this room."
the room is hunger. we swallow.