By Tia Ramos
You value the tight knot on a silk rope
—walking along each facet in circles and never advancing—
searching for self-pleasure in the dates
of those years. You cannot begin to leave—
suspended and surrounded by space only taken up by two straight lines,
unvaried in both directions
if grabbed loosely and pulled through ones’ fist slowly.
The rats living forever in the darkened bushes.
A bug crawling towards the amber.
And when you’re illuminated in the shadows,
even the bones look beautiful.