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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