I make at midnight to let you
take apart the distance between
where I place my pen and the language
with which I think. There are several voices
in my head, all with a difficult tongue
Too foreign, this intensity
to my body sweltering with baked dew
there are things we retain for reasons unknown
like a longing clipped into little sounds
like madness and rush
of the good times coming, into soundbites
midnight flames and round bread to stack
on empty stomachs.
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