"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.