Pretensions
on a formation of clouds over Hamilton County, Nebraska.
We're twice too light by one percentage point
to much more than give birth to our own deaths
and mourn until our clothes can do that, too.
For now, it's sunset fringe -- three, seven, one.
Non-shadows fall behind and under us
to crowd and fracture us as best they can't.
Sparks stretch for feet, but since they find no ground,
I'm stuck on you, with you, and you for me.
We fade each other out, and hope to freeze,
while that's-not-real-blood trickles off the clock
and new primaries call in for their shifts.
No motion makes our minds up, and "by turns"
won't drop so long or even candle-shine.
The heavier our wait, more comes to light.
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