we were well wrapped up against the cold,
the blues & soft purples of distance whispering alongside our shoulders
such that it made allegories of us
all
only a telephone call away
in the gaps between light & clarity
tiny birds built their nests
all writing had become a parallel for writing,
as gymnastics is to candle wax
necessary to break down the door with a
sledgehammer
later in the year outlines hardened
for several months all that was heard was
the sound of moths beating their fists against metal doors
gradually the pigment flaked from our
mouths
eventually the metal doors caved in
in every doorway police crouched like
leviathans on stilts
the tiny birds deserted their nests
distance became a matter of the
manipulation of pre-recorded lives
we’d lost our good warm clothes &
wandered naked among indifferent citizenry
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