Now submit







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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