The first time I sit down to it alone
I am flesh surrounded by space.
The space begins at the edges of my body
and from there it expands to contain
everything.
I've sinned.
Cannot be saved.
Surrounding me is this strange haze
made of information.
There are owls trapped in barns
on fire. Hysterical with wings.
There are statues dumped
into the sea, the sea is full of these.
There are things I've said and done that still belong to me.
And the silence
in which they're packages
accumulates like time, while through the window I see
a crane skid to a halt on the pond:
He was a child. Surely
he went to heaven.
It's been years since that boy died.
What makes me think I could speak to him now?
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