19
Those that I carried
The exposed
Their little burned suitcases
Bodies emerging
from the wind
You all know
I mean
that you see them
Their skins
coming to the surface
The spinal night…
Can they be called fires?
They went into
their flaming colors
and closed the doors
White silence
The vessels of emotion
Then too hot, then too cold
Nobody comes
from there
* *
We have notions
Can't get to
sleep
at a memorable hour
You yourselves
We all do
who live in closets
Crying's
not allowed
Open weeping
Little you do
as it happens…
I stretch
I yawn with indifference -
that old cleverness -
and pray for the survival
of something
human
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