there is a cement brick

embedded in my back

we often sleep in empty

rooms where we have

slept before the sunlight

slipping in like dust is an

old story to the likes of us

no furniture no computers

just our phones no future

no dreams no relief from

sleeping on the floor no

fuckingfuckingfucking

too exhausted in a discontent

too discouraged to assume

the illusions of the whore

no food no food no food

no outworn motley rags

no dead or winter knights

no travels in our bags

tongue-tied little moments

touching one another

dressed in autumn’s rogue

of coats

borne of unaccommodated

snarling hopes