A Rising
the sky’s getting close to Libra rising
it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with balance or beauty
is it a hustle, or a joke
some kind of maintenance of the mundane
another lie like any other lie
whatever refusal or dance is needed
as the wind suddenly turns into rain
then just as suddenly subsides
as necessity leads nowhere
as effects are simply effects rather than evidence
or a lead-in to an argument that might become reason
the fridge hums
it’s not mimicking the brief rain, it’s a machine
but for a moment it almost sounds like
a comrade, like a passing train
or tinnitus, blood, a pen writing across a page
any sound you could befriend
anything that sounds like some dialogue
you imagined when you imagined
walking out into the world
as if there were people
as if trees grew out of deliberate earth
and as if there was such a thing as singing
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