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PoetryDrafts 2009-11

it was cold like the kitchen tile at morning
a pervasive clear hollow feeling
inching into my lungs
and I wonder if it's possible for it to be
too easy to breathe

the way the trees stood halo lighted
outside the window
waiting for a breeze
how too quiet it is the first sunrise
after snowfall

this stays, caught in me
a virus I just can't shake
sick from the inside
on hot summer days
sick on falling leaves

not a tear, or scream
a singularity moving through soft tissue
into bone
I am learning not to accept
fatality.

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