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In near shriek cathedral
where the noiseless wafts out to be answered
whose choir is a breeze through a convenience store
whose one winebottle clatters to the floor
from a high shelf of rhubarb and spices drying
nothing near the sun
maniacally stabbing

the bricks are answered
by warp upon warp of gravity
but one body does not rise up
to trade himself for other souls
I turned around in the cachophonous market
to find the emptiness where he stopped walking.

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