as timber in shallow rain
from furthest things commingle hunger,
hatred, the unbearable resilience
of being. breaking like pheasants
by beaters flushed or a stray ricochet
cock full of vengeance or self, a long slow
bullet & the will to pull it,
would my desires be any different?
the last man to be consumed. you, who
none would have touched I approach as a crowd
not having left with little to offer
ambiguous oracles of our own sought,
instead texts lost in translation.
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