Soaring morningnight, a small
break in my destiny, when
the bird wings sing with wolven
howl and the train compartment
asks for the kind of luxury
we cannot live up to. Our
unfall on the grounds of being
well-traveled. How many
people have stood on your chest?
how many as jagged in their
feet as I, how many have you
set it up for, the seclusion
only true obsession can grant?
You cannot sequester me, but
the whole intruder I aspire to
grow into; a mouth can only scream
into another mouth’s ear.
We are sunken when allowed for,
shriveled when we see a life,
singular only when we are
the world and its savior.
The half-life of my utterance
has no dependence on my name;
you’ve been wrong before
as larks are when they wake up
too early. The moment hasn’t
a close unless we say it as it is.
Have we been capable of
fruitfully not lying?
I don’t believe a word.
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