The Art of Burning
The soil was so bad even the weeds played dead
but there goes my brain on fear. Watch the flicker of homes I grew up in.
Here, the sunset prayer I kept missing sunset might as well be the sky’s rust.
The day they stop announcing which one of us has been gunned down
is the day I stop swallowing the day
but here is my heart on a sleepless night and there is the moon
and there is the moon as an ashtray
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