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We are distinguished once our punch line is underwritten.
It’s the sound of a river churning, assertive in its nothingness.
Water threads everywhere, making the world wetter, making the debris float, an unchosen act expanding.
Life here is phantasmal. Globed, then photographed, blurred on the edge of what?
At first, we said like night and day, the poles are in the pipeline.
The survey began an unfiltered instrument, compressed like a pearl, sunk in a moment’s precise formation.
Explain how we amass a gabled domain, how we annotate this dynamo axing through the sylvan shade.
In a veneer of playing roles, I’m storied and customized, a shimmering monument blowing things into revolt.
To say it softly, as in the morning quiet, I’m packing heat. That fuse box is humming beside a thornbush.
If there’s enough irrational exuberance to tie us both to the tracks, does our body become a swooning emissary, a lock of nightfall unsnarled?
Instantly on special terms with a tropical wind, we could make this mourning a payload, a meteor of easement.
Unfurling my flag cloaked with a centennial’s disquiet, I’m programming in deference to a stagecraft embalmed.
A plot strategy or error of judgment, we say our lives are swaddled by small recognitions.
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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.