Culled from May: red
What sickness hears without sense or awareness,
my body sounds. Cliff face
glowing red with sunset’s end, but cold to touch in a hour.
Certain innate calibrations of symptoms will soothe senses
away from their work of recognition. Even as the act of observation itself
breaks up,
which might only appear to be
clouds dispersing,
and then the sky, too, behind the clouds, drawn to participate in the volatility
of vanishment.
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