by Liam Hastings | Poetry | Fall 2019
What moves
Like a wave
That drills
Spinning to nowhere
You’re picking
At architecture
And it’s how
Hole like a scab
I don’t know
How it fits
But each
Word is like
Another wrapper,
Evidence that we ate
You who must
And who does
Examine its
Odd pilings
On the floor
I can see
One way to make it whole
Heal the scabby
Hole from which
It all falls
Perspective is healing
Now let’s make
A trade with the
God beyond
The periphery
The god behind my head!
