and throw your face through your face

– Graham Foust

Cancel every meeting with the sky.

Forward all my calls to the colour-

field. I’ll be staying in the abstract, today.

It’s time to claim to fail to climb

out from the depths of my mouth. Let the oat

milk curdle. Forget to freeze the halibut.

Regret is finding the rub of the truth that even

hitting backspace simply sends you to the future,

a newer blankness filling with almost exactly

what went before. Now I’m receding into now

regret’s this week’s worst hangover, a pain like fireworks

through mud, like trying to throw your face through your face

or the boiling veins in your eyeballs. Still, what we do

here’s the stuff of gods. The roots are also the cosmos.