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(Falling) Skies and Houses
Black window,
a portal of nightly whorl,
reflects the shadow of my face.
Aged fissure,
splitting glazed wood beneath my fingertips,
remembers a Mariana Trench;
I can't find the bottom with my pinky nail.
If I could just have one moment
to notice the falling sky
beyond a glassy spiral—
my fingerprints press silhouettes
of moisture
onto clouded surfaces—
perhaps these fractured walls would
alarm me.
But the cleft in my chest
swallows my fear;
plunging stars carry no charm.
Black window and
Aged fissures perplex me.
I cannot be beguiled,
so, I will wait
for this house
to drop around my knees.
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