"Untitled" by Michael Prihoda

 

until rooms,

we wore our second skins as hinges.

 

one of us claims

to have invented space

 

& whoever wins will get to say

the other was an invader

 

or else a creation.

it is snowing

 

& the plastic blinds

are bumps

 

in a ski hill

facing a sky of willows & quills.

 

we wait for things

to descend.

 

we never believed

in ladders

 

or the strength

of our forearms.