Start with the moon. Do you
know where you were
when rumors of a death
of days ahead spread like glass splashed?

It was tempting to skip to an end.
Sparse by degrees, broad acres burnt
by the rusty sun. Goodness forgive us.

I am living, was all you would say.
People thought it to be clever.
We go and do not come back the same.
Leaving things, taking things with us.

Streets buckle, sunburned
and breaking in torrent heat,
as motion tests. A dried
drum with no dream inside.

Unrestrained breaths expand rules
lined in leather. Our record exists
obscurely. Find us in our sleep.

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