for being dead.
Those empty heads line up
to fill with light.
They ascend the only hilltops left
that I can't climb.
They depart from this
with a gassy hiss.
In the aisles of wanting,
the forced march of desire
I long to leave
the ones who haven't left.
In the masked airport
in the market of diminishment
I long to close my eyes
and open the wild.
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