sometimes i say to myself, let's look at the blog 
and see what's there, as though 
i'm a reader. i read 
a strange familiar,
bone tired and wave crushed.
no more paper, no more paper thin
pretenses, 
sure this moth could not hold. i'm sorry,
r., i hope you don't feel bad like me.
we may not make the promised land.
we may make it and find toxic
like the one left behind.
life is hunted and lawlessness the law 
of the land. and we are of the blighted sea.
the sickly feeling harboring within
is loosed and on the wind.
i don't know what is my dread 
and what is the planet.
i know mine is smaller.
it feels the same.