I keep
a coffin on the empty desk
beside my own in the sunstroked room –
blooms of tissue paper, the perfume of designer shoes
ghosts of what once voluptuoized within that cardboard earth, and the corpse-
white letters from all the wonderful people
who promise to write for a while
then forget altogether
they abandoned
me.
Image:
“Balloon over Luxor, Egypt.” By Marcosleal derivative work: Pro2 (talk) – Balloon_over_Luxor_-_Egypt.jpg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6564870
I think most people can identify with this.
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Back in the day you were born someplace and you couldn’t leave. I mean, way back in the day, when we were trees…
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