alone in the house
with few sounds
sometimes an
insect bumping into
the panes
pouring over maps
stacking books
just so
the breeze
sucks my hands
out the window
living in this
smashed down
skyline
it's been easier
to write
nothing at all
avoiding language
by moving it
in heaps
around the room
this morning
it won't lie still
barking out of
my fingertips
until
I tell you
this is the real
beginning
every morning
love
will be pressed into
our palms
like a coin from
a doting relative
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