You will be here too, a slab on a clean surface, a final nakedness. Days will exist without your help, squinting at their existing, at fell things, an overture of figures. New men will admire newer ones. They will shout at television sets or something like television sets. Downtowns will change. Main Streets will be crushed into the numb heat and silence of their own dead paint. What is left of us will shine a quiet fading, will shudder like a girl with fingers between her, an awkward hand up a blouse, spring and cleavage, a moaning full of chandeliers. Even now, your life bites your death's lip, parts its sleeping hair. You've grown apt at this waking, this opening and closing of doors. You will pass and pass. You will learn another way. You will speak the language of old photographs, of dirt and stone, the gray teeth jutting out of the ground. You will speak this burning across the sky. Let it hold you down.
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