What difference does it even make?
The first time I read Shakespeare
I thought it was a typo re the killing
of our father and founder Jamie Cook.
Anyway, what matters is that we’re here,
the honeycomb has melted in our mouths
(already) and we’ve mise our scènes
in our pockets. Massaging our
temples. Slouching. I felt you
up under your eyelids, the back-side of them
is like the flesh of mussels. Your sockets
split by that urchin string. If I asked you though,
would you come in next Saturday, before the move,
and sign the release?