cold in july and the
sound of
dead air moving in
through open windows
sound of twilight
ghost of man ray
and all objects that
exist
exist without end and all
objects that
fade fade without memory
and so
take comfort in failure
be locked up for your
views, or be
shot and left in a field
for the crows
be exiled
don’t believe for a
second
that you’re not an island
don’t build prisons from
the
bones of your children
allow yourself small
amounts of space,
all blossom and decay,
all fingers and
longing and soft, warm
flesh
dig deeper down to
sunlight
moist earth
moss and vines, the
shapes of your life
distorted by a slow
consuming, the sound
of your voice from a
distance, five
miles and then ten, one
hundred
and then a thousand,
and stop saying i love
you
stop believing your own
lies
consider what it is you
still
have when there’s nothing
left
open the wound just to
make a little more room
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