or Fight The Stupids



I own books composted with English
words I'm unfamiliar with, but mine

or were.

I don't remember
the faces of old lovers, or
gifts of fetal photographs

the notes tell Autumn we've forgotten
deception; the news spoke of heat instead of trust,

We are lucky—arriving home late to unfurl

a map of storms that arrive without warning, letting go
before the fingers know how to.


fiction non-fiction poetry art sounds
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