22.11.14 - 3:45 p.m.

ear to the ground, to the phone, a glass
pressed against the door, against a safe.
there is no between to read when the lines
are blank, when the soil is absent a rumble,
when the clicks come arbitrary and faint.
you are keeping busy. you have nothing to
report but a vague and opportune void,
the existence of things you won't say, a white
flag tinged with frail and futile optimism.



orlando
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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

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i used to believe

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