We Liberate We Poem by Alexander Hawkins

There is something disperate in the air.
Insects are smashed against the wall,
leaving mired mocha currents.
This whole game is just for kicks.

I don't mind telling you something is up
but what it is, I don't know. Some gravelly
substance with a decent crunch.
We rattle. We crackle.

We were searching for the right words,
left only with our adapted memories
of things intended to you,
in order to remember me.