K in P (plus one) | Kimberly Lyons


Fritz Lang's Metropolis was my dollhouse.

You inveterate passenger. Introverted


I hunger for this glistening obdurate

resistance in a buckle.

A catchment area.

The halo of indeterminacy, a rocky sensation,

a veil that shatters the night.

A desk, coal.

What light there is

compartmentalized by P's definitions.

Yet, I drink it anyways.