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July 20, 2020 / barton smock


I don’t think it was ever a child, my body. more a changing loneliness. a thing dreaming of its planet while being held or not being held by a thing distracted by a comet. this is how I worry that what I’m reading is elsewhere beautiful to others. I die and you know or you don’t. I pray of course that in the stomachs of the ghost and the angel the same spiderweb is found, but longing is a mirror that looks itself to sleep.

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