Dust, maybe /

Tightly bound as the messengers of their own destruction, millions as the casualties of mutation
centuries on. Appointment appointment appointment and more; I drove to one and never again.
Pity pity pity and aren’t they all gone with the cells? The pictures are through the honey. I
dreamed of 20/800’s mud forever. The pictures are postmarked but it’s rotting away. From
millions as they said white coat becomes the wall or chair a few left like December green leaves
begging to do anything casually cruel, snapping bones and casts but nerves are fragile. I beg my
soles to find faces in the grass. I’ll build a nest from the photos and visions of days that aren’t
today. I’ll die in the sounds screaming the beauty.


L. Cole is a resident of Ypsilanti, Michigan primarily working in visual art, he occasionally finds time to write a few words. After losing his sight in his mid-20s he has found that he has much more to say.