by Chuck Richardson


He’s losing the lot all over again. New routines do not exist. It is mature. Everything chiseled into stone gets digitized, perhaps. Logarithms asexually inhabit the whole thing—nonplussed. The unnamable becomes ineffable as It’s damaged. We are the fabric, stitched together in storms to be torn asunder, too fast and weak for immortality. At one’s private end being embraces Its self, tumbling into the nakedness of a future dreamed. The babe is gone, but the dog worries the child into hiding somewhere in the street.

Love is a black hole, sucking.



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