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“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

“The days in which I never even bothered to change clothes”

I am far between the good rain.
At night I store gifts inside the houses
of other peoples lives,
mixing colors into a distance of time,
or a watched passing bright
near the foot of the tree,
its stamina, like a scar of summer
running toward the notion of food-
(is) sensed.

Tell me what I missed
while I was busy being important?
Did the firmament rename itself?
Has the landlord become bitter,
feeling outside her world?
Very often the walls too
repeat the sounds they hear
in the claw of out yonder-
oblivious people bound to each other
but blind to the kernel of the real thing
inside each of them.

I have missed, something, you-
its not important.
The ecology of the world
understands its loss,
many of us wanting to learn
what we already know-
it is called a ‘defunct event’.

Over and over the no light
absent pushing into the unfinished home,
the fatigue one feels
from having to constantly match
the right memories.
A blue and ruin until the whole facade
experiences static- counting,
not counting stones,
a little self awareness.
A figure who will tend to it’s landscape.

For me speaking isn’t easy.
There are so many arrangements
to make beforehand,
preparing ground to play it safe,
to move close up, actually.


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