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sky speaks with an accent like worship stop
a temporary lifelessness in your eyes where I pour my waiting palaces stop
the pearliest part of a memory is lost to its lack of consequence please
rub a little chalk on both palms and then reach stop
was I the mad girl eyes white like blossoms stop
or just the rescuer who turned accomplice please
so cold the air is granular against skin’s gray stop
we bang this thin sheet of tin and call it listening stop
do the reckless simply hear the avalanche before the rest of us please advise
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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.