still without the white wind
but aching, then a cough
no, the sky palms its cool rain
toward the eastern shore's aching eyes
prone, though immune to the festering sun
fluid-filled lungs &
your scream across the outerbridge
never not but a bell unrung
so inside
though abandoned missing
half, thought not betrayed or flayed flat
and catching that which fills me
one can do so much
behind the love of windows
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