I don't know what I'm doing.
But I am doing this.
Look at my 43rd eyebrow hair from the left. Please?
Good. Thanks. Is it pointing at you?
Yes. My soul is a cave.
Deep and infinite. Darker than everything and nothing.
My soul is your soul. Her soul is his soul.
Our soul is our home.
The earth is a place.
Earth in our feet and our tongue.
Talk to me. Tell me where it hurts.
Hospitals and hospice and home entertainment systems.
Blown out speakers, wobbly computer chairs, I walk through the window.
Theresa hears a blame, fallen and black as ill-treated oil.
I ooze from the pristine faces of the youngest sinners.
Hang the safe curtain of doubt and studiously craft dinners.
Ghostly pale, freckles of shadow.
I called out to her, one of the future, the imperfect image, oceans in our pants, stars in our tricolored, globular eyes.
I still wait for her to reply. I don't know why.
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