It is all loneliness

One line

might not be enough

to build a life on

 

It probably isn’t

enough to pay for bread, and

milk

 

One line might be the

echo, the bruise

on someone else’s belly

 

I could stay here

in the wingspace

above the city

 

I could stay

somewhere after the beginning

somewhere before the wheels come down

 

One line

won’t be enough

to live on

 

But it is

too much

for an epitaph.

 

 

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