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January 3, 2021 / barton smock

[ etc, 2020 ] ] ] ]

It’s not so much that death takes, but that death doesn’t take everything. Still here is the hole we made in our ears to record a decoy’s breathing. Still here are the toys we shook to soundproof grief. And here still are the bones, thunder-fled and broken. If I say god, I mean only that a stickman gathered itself in time to impress a scarecrow. If I say them, they trace with chalk the dreamless stone.

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