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in the smiling eyes of death we find comedy
in the unthinkable flatness of dust we discover photography
we are our grains and height
awake late, again, 
someone warm loving you 
in a dream
in the other room
a truck full of swimming boys
swerves hysterically on route 17
commerce passing by in streaks unnoticed
in the absence of true friendship we find poetry
in the darkness of faith we trace our hands like children.

formless [fragment]

it was a quarter past two in the morning and she knocked on the cold, hand-painted door three times.
she often went for a 5-mile run in the never-silent urban night; interrupting the halogen darkness, ambulance calls were foremost, then police sirens, then the dual blast of fire alarms.
he answered the door almost immediately. inside, turning the door knob, he was as asleep as she was iced in sweat. their eyes met and a each exchanged a sweet quarter smile. she placed her fingertips on the small of his back and guided him back to the bedroom, toward the bed.
she watched him, rough and childlike, throw the duvet covers aside, climb in with his knees, rip the blankets back over his small body. he was asleep, again.