Without which there is
nothing, an anarchy
of syllables and syntax, decomposition
and deliquescence. Like a missing book that rots
beside the sea or a pattern in the sun
creating its own internal storms.
Like the curve of shoulders bent by wind,
or the scraping sadness of a dying wish.
Like nothing else, not the albatross who dies
aloft and fades into the dark, consumed with grief
and seeks the heaviness of breath at dawn
yet cannot linger in a passing thought.
When words collapse inside themselves and sounds
and sense divorce, then poetry resounds.
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