“Throat”

you cooled
with distorted movements

quiet voices;
“downward is heavenward”

here, platformed
thinking you knew us

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“Curtained Sunlight”

It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.