The trees have run away from here
The ground pulled bare and baked
But we don’t know about them
Of the creepers in our gardens
Of the pigeons on our windowsill
And their droppings
Pungent on sandrock unseen
We don’t know of them either
Of the people we cook and
Share meals with
The ones held together by name, blood, law
We don’t know them
The buried voices
In our heads
Our untested limbs
Unfamiliar to their own potential
Do we know ourselves?
The pleasures of the damned
Tell that
They have forsaken themselves too
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