these evenings insist
on showing us
their chubby fucking faces
they have the
silence in their
they're trying not to
holding back and pointing
while slowly turning red

like it's something so
to see us
in this place
it's something so
to stay and watch the way
that this nothing
can drive a man
to nothing

huddled in a bed with a
bare leg hanging down
a mind in songs of
secrets and the
water on the streets
waiting for the sound to come
with a suitcase and a bow
and a flower wrapped in celophane

and how nothing, in it's
absence, is just
everything at once

and how every word can
stand for every truth
or every lie

but silence is life's honesty
and leaves nothing
for which to wonder

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