Sleep or rain with us. Wet agonists loosed
from clouds. Window of martyrdom rhythms.
You want to wake with a weeping world. This
whelms me. I need dream tundra. What is lube for,
anyway. We walk to the patter of these
lapsarian songs. I cannot read or feel
you out here, with the sky so prolific.
Let us move in rooms where our words are noosed.
You fall on my body after a dry theorizing
of suicide. We fail
and live. To write is to make ground from cloud,
refuse to hang or drop. Don’t console me.
Don’t resolve my rests. I want the threat
of descent constant—and you, there, ready.
Connor McNamara Stratton has been having trouble reading lately. Office life is a woeful rhizome. Still, perhaps there is hope in the smudges of distant conference calls, or more likely just mute.
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