wither I /
shrinking capsule in a great /
intestinal wash heaving /
across the concentrated space of this country /
my hand’s wave grows smaller /
hardly picking up the lid /
of a passing infant /
these hands break /
under the weight of a match /
no longer a son /
and none before me /
crawling towards the world’s lip /
better to be lost each day /
fingering for patterns of light /
than accounting for chair legs /
on the wake’s ballroom /
let’s hear it for the pill in the gut /
forgiving form for a spray /
across the universe’s territory /
pinching the noses of all /
the imagined gods /
lying in wait ’til spring /
is the last season
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