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2020-06-26
we sing the spaceways


I remember when there was a red dusk all summer long. A cool breeze off the ocean. And the heat of her thigh. But that was a long time ago. Women die or change their names. I sleep alone on a sea of dark beer, late-night talk radio. Watching one last light out at sea. Dream of high-noon deserts, my father's ghost searching for a spacesuit in hangars of the abandoned airbase. Sunday morning hymns the spiders sing. Spider webs as intricate and beautiful as stained glass. I wish we knew each other before the world began. Hot, black coffee and breakfast at a sunrise before the world began. Quiet, excited talk about the monastics carving decades into the sunrise. Hushed, sleepy tones about nightfall and signals from space.


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