What did we have before we wrote the book
late Mazdaists early Christians crunching
across chalk and flint, what does that smell like?
What was the last event, demanding to be hidden,
written out, written off, when there was only door
anywhere? Door and chalk and no history
the expressive body my hands a pit of fish sauce
only the images we give each other. When the book
is over it’s empty again. The sun comes out
a man hollers from the beach. Hungry fishermen
button up their jackets and swim back to shore.
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