13 June, 2017

Listening To


To the air produced by trees
Sounds, eaten green
The wax of leaves clogging lungs

To the thoughts
of dark men
insecure and sweaty, frenzied

To conversations pureed
I don’t understand living in tiny boxes
without life, Separate

To ghosts eating coins
while we try to keep promises
and straight spines

To all the breaths
borrowed from some other being
Shallow and sincere

To solidarity
fossilized by past efforts
in the hopes of being heard

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