There is an affect deeper than the sun’s over the horizon of the prairie.

There is a longing wider in the middle than the whole of the ocean from the deck of the fisherman’s boat.

There is a ghost called the past that is more present than my lover’s sighs which mingle with the wind and whip through me unfelt.

I am a monster more egregious than all the bloody teeth in the nightmares of children and the damaged.

We are a mystery cloudier than the distance between this lifetime and the next.

The mind is a problem, and there are no mathematics robust enough to calculate the ways in which I can hang myself from my own cerebellum.

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