Fullness & Emptiness

It is impossible to remain in the world
without letting it fracture your body
into thousands of splinters of desire.
And it is impossible 

not to forgive this thing it does to you, 
so that you lie each night like a map 
folded back into itself after passing
from one hand to another, or 

a square of cloth through which needles
thread stories of flowers and convulsive 
vines. The curtains breathe like lungs. 
One sweet pepper pulses 

like a heart of green in its pot. 
Everything seems most alive
in the heat as well as in 
the absence of heat—

Our histories: fistfuls of seeds 
gleaming inside dark bodies. Singular 
as any wound, something unseen
others think they can buy or steal.

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