Oceans continue to burn between the eyelashes.
The salt of the spheres proliferates like toenails
in the tiny world of ancient wanderers. They look for
an abandoned church where uncertainty accumulates.
Where shadows make no suicide attempts, try not to
sleep on the ceiling. Where shadows don’t exist sometimes.
They look for music everywhere: Amazon, Discogs, eBay.
They take any pills they want. Drink bottles of water.
Make sounds with the lips. Now they are apparent
nobodies to everyone who happens to see them in the streets.


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