Now
submit.
Submit.
Sub
mit.
To the hours, the stairs
the uncertainty of the floor
tilting beneath your raised foot.
To echoes of whirling voices,
dissonance and rain bouncing
on borrowed graves.
To pushing, pausing
wondering if this holds meaning
or sympathies for floppy haired fascism.
We do not see,
we do not know.
Unless, there, in the vague shifting outlines something sharpens into brief definition.
Holding against looming mystery, before collapse.
Fire (absent)
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