KEN

by Caleb Nichols





Unsubscribe from everything, save hummingbird wings

and the waves of plague grass that salvage an afternoon.



Aim to make half as much as you maw, and

ken ye well a language not your own.



Face it once a day, the ebb tide, how even as it wanes

it pushes in, endlessly, until the moon unspools, unwinds.



Mute everyone, unfollow. Track time by shadow scrim, the wall

a sort of sun dial, more kairos than chronos.



Listen to the plague wind, savaging the afternoon, raising the dust.





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