On the contrary, you must
take it all in—
all the symptomatic
tremors that push the needle
on the dial past the zone
of safety:

that growing trace of yellow
in the water, the graphite cast
left in the wake of coal—

The murmur of voices
grows into a din along the river.

Time is a branch on which
leaves proliferate
supposedly to die
away in winter.

Bodies pack every inch
in major city streets:

and isn’t it better
to suffer together,
instead of apart?


In response to Via Negativa: Observer.

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