it has the rhythm of a waltz, the contemplativeness of a corner-of-a-wood-cabin-far-from
the-fireplace solitude late at night, the open exertion of a field under plane-strung
sky.
it is speaking things—I want to write them down, for you,
but—there are no words in these hollow places where words were born to go.
maybe once, there were words set on these notes like artifacts of queendom. but
they were wrested away, leaving vacancy, lightning, hollow unansweredness, ten
times the power, never-forget-this plenitude.
a wall knifes into my back and I am full / empty, fearless /
afraid, scarred, perfect, whole.
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