Wordle #165


There’s a pit where my spine

Used to be, a concavity absent

All the usual impositions.

The stiffest drink is a meager

Approximation for vim and valor

And nothing repulses more

Than the uncanny valley

Of total inebriation, the emptiness,

The almost endearments,

The flailing excuses for an utter lack

Of quantifiable fortune.

My chest is full of half-eaten sixes

And the rubble of unlit chimneys.

Face first in a porcelain muzzle

I revisit my life, my habits, the cliffs

Both surmounted and impassible

Straining to hear a whistle

That will summon me

From the rip in both heart and gut.

I have drilled into this ache

Split the doors and windows

As if they were constellations

Woven of papery refuse.

I have dreamed of finding love

Despite flaccid instigation.

I have wished for many things

But I have managed only

To pass the time.