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


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

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