There is our big hero watering the edge of a brick, holding himself up by a sapling some summer night in love but not knowing what with. And there is me just sitting here thinking of him not knowing my my my heart is beating in something besides iambic. We almost never hear ourselves say I have had enough my belly is full and I feel sufficiently adored. In this cloud I see above me I can read someone else’s diary. It feels wrong and I love that it feels wrong. I found the key under the tongue of a dead relative I can’t remember the name. I can’t remember the name I’m supposed to call out as I’m falling. There is a big hero watering the ruins of a 14th century church. Pray, he says, for me. Lemons in the market warming in the noon sun, too large to fit into any mouth, poured over their own rims. Piles of them for anyone to consider lifting and then we’ll do what exactly?
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