The Murmur

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It will be how they remember us. There is glass over dirt here, clouded overImage with the voices of ten thousand souls. I see straight through that window after a regular scan.

In the white clearness of an afternoon, the blankly moving people walk around with their souls scraped clean.

Half of themselves.

We only look to the dropping of the sun, so we can sleep it off or press our organs, dipped in ink, onto a page.

(How brilliant could we grow?)

I’ve taken to drifting off in public places, and once even prayed myself to a cycle of REMs that barely ended.

A whitewashed tomb, this reckoning is, and us.

Cold air seeps, and then, a breath toward the sea.