Swallowing Gulps

by Noah Haalilio Solomon

what happens when grapes go south of sour.

.

.

breathing post-effacé wind patterns and the room is free of relics,

one sigh cleaving space handsomely postured

pinned-neat-in-four-corners

about me when

lungs go flaccid silent rest

and everything comes

still inside of stillness

when nothing not pierced

through by alarming lucidity

as eyes rush

in the flux of omnipotent

and hyperly dancing parts

hiding faculty while

nostrils bloom in

symmetry there’s

palpable space

(wide nothings) and,

what was damp has dried

stiff and politely,

while my head aches slightly,

sensing

all that is left, and all that is not.

.

this is my way of trying,

and i have tried and tried ,

and while my innards are lined with

amber sap spread rich of

stoic fluency for the swindling,

my ears are cynics-

they sense trouble,

ringing shrill in the name

of swiftly-swelling ulteriors,

exterior, mistakenly interior won’t see that it’s

deteriorating

but yes, beg of no misfortune — it swallows whole,

and for now,

at least,

that will be the scandal to end our story…

.

so maybe then,

there is no trying,

maybe there is just

breathing new wind patterns,

and being still inside of stillness.

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