Blue Flower Arts

three feet behind my grin I speak
so seems my teeth is down for it
but it’s a make-do I do.
I DM P. L. Dunbar on some 
whatchu mean “we?” no—
really, though. the rough metric
opening this a lie to make 
done the otherwise I say I is.
yet, the we I been subtweets 
me—“whatchu mean ‘I?’”—
answer’s off my tongue, so: 
authentic, no? where “fine,” “OK,”
“yes” get forged? I split my difference
between here and gone, 
a distance of hard words 
hissed; presence of the harms’
numb climb: I’m fine, I’m fine.