Sweet soul. On loan in every hour

with every story, hope blinked ahead

and led me where to go. Up a hill

in dead dark, my chest a cave and open

seating. The dim quick flick of flame

upon the day, my omen in reverse,

first memory. Sweep my days

away. It’s a quiet Tuesday night

here, and in the hills, a night

with money is neighboring. Word

ranked against. An aphid’s heart, a blip.

American aphasia will return

with someone else. And here is a name,

it hovers, it enhances what it dances

dead: a name. Hidebound happy types

hear the rout: I’m tame, like rabbit parts,

a lullaby in drone, remotely aimed.

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