I can’t resolve what it is I think.
I see the sun dying on replay.
I’ve seen some things I can’t repeat:
They alter softly. Day to day.
The truth is sly, it hides under feet
that pulp and crush and then re claim.
Now everybody has to claim
& drown in what it is we think.
Things like wings are pinned by feet
that march and shuffle on replay.
The mantra stays the same each day.
The sky is snagged on repeat.
I set the cycle on repeat.
I check the journal on my claim.
I breathe the briefing of the day.
It does not tell me how to think.
I rack the track back on replay.
It’s running trains along my feet.
The ground is fracked beneath my feet.
The droplets merge and then repeat.
Viral sequences replay.
The crown of thorns is there to claim,
with IV bleach to help you think
in phases that rephrase the day.
We now are warned against the day
& steer the steppings of our feet
so that the coppers will not think,
we do not heed what they repeat.
Bandits now all have to claim,
their medicine is in replay.
My medicine’s not in replay
yet I can score this scorching day
while bumbling, they stake their claim. Cannot obtain my week’s repeat
& circle, solemn, on my feet.
I can’t resolve how vultures think.
By Lucia Kali