To sing’s to field thought’s
failed arrow, then drop it,
as sadness surprises,
as always, then doesn’t,
its record all rumors, bits
of lithic in its meat,
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March 31, 2021
Underneath the electric microscope frass gathered like a word no one could pronounce, or something children left in a cage. Sugar ants were gorging on the corpse of a cicada next to the front door. Soon four golden mounds were theirs, to carry back in their lemony bellies to the queen. I have a box of nine suns set on spikes, a pair of gray bags concealing speakers. I am your teacher, said the teacher, alone in a room. If there is a predicate to this.
March 24, 2021
A hole in the sky
is what it looks like. Something that will be replaced
by color, which is a kind of
false answer, and yet the only real truth
in this world. The only “real truth”
by which I mean
forgiving. Fog is made virtually
is what it looks like. Something that will be replaced
by color, which is a kind of
false answer, and yet the only real truth
in this world. The only “real truth”
by which I mean
forgiving. Fog is made virtually
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