It can be hard to breathe for a star,
to shine for a spider. Dust can fill everything
besides your armpits. It’s about time
to take a picture, perhaps, or get lost
amidst Christless crosses in the Saturnian woods,
the boondocks of the universe, to call out to the patron saint
(in case you remember the name, of course)
amidst clothed crosses. There are always cracks
in eggshells, fingernails and walls, after all. There are always crackpots
among firemen and electricians. There are always beatific butchers
among harpists and trumpeters.


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