Summon this sun to math, to a small
speck
open to fault; a hero can’t travel
this relative distance. Queens,
embedded
with boys cheat the North of its
wanton joys,
open their mouths wide for geese to
escape.
This is the here-ness that is
everywhere—
caesura infinitely flat, only
known as summed breath hurtling
into glacial
teeth, into a cloud, into the
throats who
ring the North, never offering warning.
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