My cold skin holds together a place
where the landscape lights up in patches
of ache, and hard dry grasses scrape
each time the thing breathes, tries
to digest, tries to sleep. Numb in the sunshine, let
the tongue go to sand, the knee creek.
Half an hour forgetting then three-quarter's day
face and organs in a fist. Nothing to grip on
but the exhaustion fissuring through.
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