by S.C. Flynn, he/him

In a strange land, everyone does what he must.

As usual, the bird in my dream was a dove

covered in blood that sat on my clothes rack,

preening itself, spattering my shirts red.

I catch and devour small kindnesses

as if they were locusts full of the ripe fruit

of domestic life. But for my honey.

I savour the sweet hours of silence

and peace, reading obituaries

of people I’ve never heard of.

I pile up my writings on the floor

where they will crumble unread.

Somewhere out there must be others like me,

each one a centre, sharing

in the vastness of the sphere,

but the space between us is cold and dark.

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