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Life with its sorrow, life with its tear.
And you know what that means:
the sky in a drawer,
the underwear underworld
on the floor of the moon.
Under the emergency lamps a small panic was growing,
keeping to itself, chiming
ahead of your headlights, wobbly.
You had just gotten so young
it was all I could do to contain you
in the linen dishtowel we kept for that purpose.
The doctor prescribed bed rest.
The cash cow is a going concern,
the intake not dangerous enough
that you folks enjoy.
It’s not immortality,
these mechanical trees, alders.
Good to know you’re not killing them all yourself
across the street baby.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.