time in flesh
out of joint like a bad science fiction novel
moving through coils of reptilian images of snake bodies
and seething for want of violet flowers.
used to know
what to do here
in terms of this writing
seemed convinced
that I could write with S. Awan
but she ran away
as opposed to falling
into that dark star known as Death
and all I have in memory
is a scrap of lace
and the coordinates of Nova Scotia
along with some ruminations
that if she is still walking the face of this green Earth
then she may be deaf, hiding or lying.
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