As a living soul, I am replete
with silences
for the sake of my own history,
the aphoristic body I lose
for a moment,
or these moments,
marked by our voices.
And the voices sing, no longer
at the mercy of language,
with the chorus of the land somewhere, someplace,
outside the story-choked scape.
Something is seen, but one
doesn’t know what
because they behave not like
bodies,
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