Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself.
If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?
Without you my air tastes like nothing. For you I hold my breath.
I do not believe in the beauty of falling.
You can’t have two worlds in your hands
and choose emptiness.
There’s plenty that poetry cannot do. But the miracle, of course, is how much it can do, how much it does do.
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