I once fell in love with a needle on a page.
It was caught singing there in stitches,
the paper lined and blank.

But my love is plastic and I never know what it wants.

The word. Acting as a pause.
Or blood what simply
keeps us alive—

and you know what they say about songs is the same
about mirrors. We are morons, we are all

giving someone the business
and this is not altruism.

Just as the atmosphere
is not something you would want

strapped to your mouth, neither is
your loved ones’
compounded interest.