Franky

Trauma-blind or just stoned,
he walks through the letters
out, just out.

He can’t tell me what
the page says,
can’t repeat
a single thought
but leaving.

Into the whiteout
that eases into
buildings and trees,
his guest bedroom,
new family
and friends.

Out again at
the edge of sweat
always, at the edge
of bursting, changing.

Breathing
boiling pollen,
eyelids lazy,
unsurprised.

 

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