Rubble of Our Church

A girl I knew, who loved January as much as May,

— January. I can’t brush off the
Silence without messing up my hair, it’s a strand from a lazy web,
And a year has gone by

Since we last hung the weatherman
Begging for prescience
Beneath his kicking feet

[
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It conquers nothing

But the world
Changes too fast, how the taxi comes and whisks the heart clean
, then, I do believe the wind must have been beautiful once,
Now stripped of a body.

And here, the sun also rises
Beneath our kicking
Feet.

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