Maybe, my friend, my sadness,
my inverse lover, there is
no action to be taken,
no action short of dying,

that could polish off the sin,
grow back the original
and unblemished skin stretching
like a lone widow’s artwork,

like a long expanse across
the canyon spread between us,
across that which divvies up
our self, alone from our self,

all we can do is grow up
cities and bridges, piles
of lumber, stacks of dailies,
generations of research

and harness the deft power
of our children and their skill
and their potential to grow
new cell lines from nothingness.

We are trapped here, in these cells,
perhaps to make our mistakes,
our dumb moves, and keep digging
ourselves deep into this pit.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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