It wasn’t just the odds against, it was the shot that there never was. The all in I’d rain down to the little I ask, there wasn’t any there to be had. The fiction that I am ever in on the fix, they only ask you in to feed the empty. All the big hopes died off early in the anthropocene, all the little ones murdered one by one, the gray of the day through the dark of the imminent dawn. Wishes all these bullets that never grant me peace. A place to keep your creases.
Saturday, April 6, 2019
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hand fed
It’s a bright blue day when sight returns, gaze spilling down the grade that I roughly gauged as the angle of the wind, all docile thoughts ...
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This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
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The heart is reckless mechanism. The heart is an essential worker. The heart won’t leave well enough alone. Carrying torches and keeping tim...
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Again it is the slow sweep of green against the crawl of cloud and sky, the wind on its hind legs kicking up the dust, this strange drawling...
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