Small Catastrophes

Rendered untouchable, the moon was once an overlord, an industry of hide-and-seek. Small catastrophes are waiting for the wind to pick up steam. The gases are burning, they have been lighting this stretch of night for as long as I can remember. Breathe the green air. It touches the lungs with forbidden currents that we beat back to a preference. A hanging bulb blazons this side of warmth. Whatever passes under a microscope is shaped by distance, an unstitched name upon arrival. An elegant strand of hair glistens. Try to handle it; it is inwoven with a nearly untraceable lexicon.

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