Seagulls and pigeons don’t care about their shadows.
They don’t give a shit if they lose them.
The doppelgangers can’t probably read street names
and signboards, nor can they smell the food. The cities
they used to visit years ago teem with insurgents,
the language they used to speak there, they now
use it to reveal their thoughts,
or as a substitute for wine, or
to talk to pets. How beautiful are,
no, listen to me, you bastard, how
beautiful are burning trees and beds, and TVs
in quiet apartments. And here
it’s only a ten-minute walk to the ocean.
Ancient lighthouses are happy to hide our joy.


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