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Typhoon
The only question now is how long can it take? It's all hanging on you. Just make your move before you have no move to make. There's no future, there's no lighthouse on the lake. You're just rambling through endless corridors-a mouse lost in a maze. You gotta calm yourself and try to concentrate: What survives in the fire? What small fragment after all else disintegrates? I come home and the door is hanging open, the smoke alarm is howling, the bathroom mirror is broken and find you standing in the backyard pouring gas on a bonfire. a**-naked in the middle of December. The shame you don't recall with the clothes you don't remember in flames. Tearing pages of notebooks in the embers. Your makeshift funeral pyre. Toss and turn all night then it comes to me. You can't shake out the shards in your memory. So you're engaged in this scorched earth policy until there's nothing. Later on claiming wolves replaced your family, you raised your hand against me with the newspaper you can't read, then you wrapped yourself in an op-ed on the construct of history. The mark of time is elaborately long. It's a spirograph drawn with no breaks. Just goes on and on. Yet here we are on the cutting room floor splicing fugues where they don't belong. Toss and turn all night but there's no relief. I went into your room, you were sound asleep. So I stayed for awhile watching you grind your teeth. When you wake, there's a moment as you rise. You feel it all coming back and you realize you tried to amputate the parts that made you scared to die. Now it'll kill you if you let it. You're a blackhole bending light beams backwards. Center caving, self collapsing inwards. Against the infinite you have no stature. Shrinking infinitely out of the picture. Look for the lever, try to break the pattern. Single crocus in the dead of winter.