No one here wants to change the world

Moving air around
in elegant lungfuls,
we press ourselves against
the quiet and still,
hoping for someone else’s
better choice of lines
to run its dirty nails down
our spines
and leave us
shaking.

These dark rooms,
these backyard slams,
these elegant movements.

We are masters of graft
and smoke,
broken glass and
homespun rope,
sledgehammers swung at
hummingbirds,
we are near misses,
drunk tongue kisses,
and morning after tea cups.

No one here wants to change the world,
no one here knows how.

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