Mario Mesaglio
pollenbeesberrieseat from the palm of my handthe spoils
from when we could still go outjaminside a resurrecting glassburst
of proclivities over a pacified breadnonetheless the bluethe earthslursstutters
the windnomadic cadencesynchronized intervalsacross
internal geographiesthe cochlea in my earintrinsic harmonymy gate
numerical patternswarping surfacesstrikes of dustitchy eyesallergy to
stillnessto the bits of myself left behindto my own deforestation
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