by Pearl Pirie
a thousand cuts, cold sleet
makes me immortal
since it does not kill me.
maybe I weaken.
maybe I am sombre
as an escalator after hours.
write what you no
no, no. the unknowable,
the honest to gaslit truth.
aren’t all pauses pregnant
and is not noise
the birth control of ideas?
words point forward, not
prophetically but profitably
not for profit but for gain.
consider what you consume
its cleanliness. do like
the racoon and wash
before consuming.
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