With what words can
I denote you
that become you as
my captive you,
my object you who awaits
You are my semiote
and I your flailing
I want you to be
what dust mote
I touch when
I reach for wood;
With what waters can
I enmoat you,
that you would drink of
me only for greater thirst?
Your Brain on Failure
Everymorning comes breakfast spoon to mouthhomes:
early, for prostate that unabates;
cornflakes, for fallow body that unsates.
Today’s communion, a eulogy for seed felled among thorns.
Sun meets horizon to indenture the second responders,
to confound we who smile for you who are on camera,
to lose us surely one more subhorizontal night.
“When I was little, in Hong Kong,” she whispers,
“I used to say I was a ‘knot expert.’
They’d bring me pieces of string,
or shoelaces, and I would untangle them.
And when I told my parents’ friends, they laughed at me:
‘A not expert? What’s that for?’”
She traces the veins up my wrist, massages the base of my palm.
“I was so funny back then.”
Max Kapur is Seattle: a quarter Indian and in love with coffee. He is currently an undergrad at USC studying jazz piano and Korean. His work lives at illusionslopes.blogspot.com.