FLATUS VOCIS

 

Prophecies – a few stains of blood

our memory’s repertoire – a medical record

from the beginning as a postage stamp

on the empty, blank envelope with a single

trace of it as though you had existed

without experience: life uprooted by any

wind we settle into an invisible out-of-doors

and the wind is freezing the leaf you can no

longer distinguish from either yesterday

or tomorrow or forever, there’s no even

fear – maybe there’s just a day that

has pervaded my void heart.

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