Culled from May: red

What sickness hears without sense or awareness,

my body sounds. Cliff face

glowing red with sunset’s end, but cold to touch in a hour.

Certain innate calibrations of symptoms will soothe senses

away from their work of recognition. Even as the act of observation itself

breaks up,

which might only appear to be

clouds dispersing,

and then the sky, too, behind the clouds, drawn to participate in the volatility

of vanishment.

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