Consider this an endurance test.
A steeple chases the fog,
the muddled semantics of breath
harboring a sentiment long thought
to forge forgetfulness
in the combine of reason.
Another season passes,
taking with it the fever dreams
of waiting, though inducing
a precise nausea.
I shuffle the sheets, collecting
the columns as they corrugate
a ransom for the pot stickers’ greed.
This is hidden in the text.
The text is hidden in references,
and references shall provide
a nemesis, a fortune drained.
Clouds appear
as gnarled moths.
Folding and unfolding.
Steam stretches into theory.
Folicles burn.
-r. miller
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