_______Remember when I fed you jewels
until you died of happiness?
_______I had bad tobacco burps. The state
wasn’t taxing silence yet. I
_______accidentally ate that acid, saw

God inside a knuckleball. He said,
_______Look here. I don’t want you
pleasuring yourself into a Pellegrino
_______bottle anymore. Back to when you

died—I think that
_______was me, that you’re writing
this poem. I don’t know
_______what to say except
your cuticles are picked
_______to shit & you should know
better than to eat yourself,

_______despite how therapeutic
it can be. Before I can’t,
_______I need to say a village
mob is on its way, shaking
_______torches, all that action. All
they want is what
_______the oldest poets stole. But

you cannot, no matter
_______where they point or who
they quote, return what
_______they are coming for, because
the moon is yours to kill, compare
_______until the night can’t
recognize itself in water.


Chad Foret