Dad’s Shadow

On workdays he’d get up,
worn as the mattress’s springs,
and put on his dad face.
I’d sometimes see him through the cracks

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The Bluebird and the Apocalypse

There is an apocalypse in my chest,
and there is a bluebird beating its wings.

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The Cynical Ones

We are the cynical age of man
we are the mouth of ridicule,
whispering alone,

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