too much have I glimpsed only shadows of him, in sunlight absorbed by me.
The avenue boils up heat until they say you can fry an egg: sunny-side-up,
a misnomer, since there's that same dull pupil staring right back at me, yellowing.
A branch bends to stab it, soaking in the warm yolk that drips out goo,
because the dead chicken inside cannot shed any tears.
Nor the smooth stones by the riverbed weep,
nor the crumpled snakeskin by my feet feel, nor care, nor love—
because these are dead, inanimate, or decayed inside,
like the me, hollowed out and dried. Draining, soaking, anything to stay alive.
Spoiler! :
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