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poetry

No bulwark here but

No bulwark here but barren land— filtered arctic beats the aseptic cowl—

Does the soul linger

Does the soul linger after the last heart beat? Does it uncover the lines and cords strewn on the body—

Telomere—

Telomere— the end is here— Cold leaf on a windshield— wiped— conducts the end of songs—

At Giardino Rossi

At Giardino Rossi before I sit to rest, a pair of little boots trip on cobble stones before me.