cry

A woman sleeps in a plaza wrapped in a book twice her size.
Shadows return to the sky smeared with her native language.
Passersby wear masks to scare the planets off,
to steal contaminated gasps and hangovers.
Weather isn’t the medium of the beasts covered by stinking stars,
whose voices are too weak for the giant letters and cold air.
The skins of decrepit goddesses, forgotten on the clotheslines,
shrink indefinitely. Geese practice applied scatology and eschatology
a long while before achieving the transparency of a cry.

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