how much of the memory is visible

In the muscles of the burning speech

You know the streets and their nomadic violence

There’s no point in waiting for the ghost

Inside the hutong

He’s there, but he’s too busy dancing

Inside our awakened sleep

Beers at your fingertips

Beers at your fingertips

a purple moon in the insomnia of objects

The paper foam in this toy town

Love Letters Naked Forever

In verses about war 

As dementia progresses throughout the night

We know somebody’s waiting for us

In a much safer land.


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