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Waiting for Amnesia

It's no wonder
I am hollowed out.

Apple's bitten
clean through its core.
Even seeds' gone,
swallowed whole,

but they are sprouting
in cavernous abdomens
to fruitless, ulcerous
crab trees.

This is what
the void plants:
the so much need
& yearning for so much
in poor soil.

For something more
majestic than this
even when
I close my eyes
& dream it all
in color, repeating,

All the thankless
routines of praising
false harvests
has me wishing
for blank,
soundless waves,
hill-less horizons.

That's what it means
to be wise I've been told:
forgive vulgar volcanoes
for acting out
their discontent.


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