about the mist
how empty it is, like
a shroud over a body resurrected
you could release all your whispers
in a scream, and have it
rise through the great expanse
invisible immediately
soaring like a crow
like a curse
like a treefall
or is it full
is it heavy, potent
like a field full of bodies covered over
tenderly by the bobbing flowers
all the flaws of thousand lives
become granules in the soil
moist and cold and breathing
we are cold and breathing
the waves fold in on themselves
again, again, again
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