Listening
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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