The language of rust
is blood; withering
steel is still
the stuff
of life
iron or
shadows, sequence
Liturgy
of a map of
shipwrecks
seen from
space
space
is everywhere
anyway
everyone needs
space
but ghosts
& latent ghosts
To be alone
in darkness
The story of a web
of ropes
& pulleys; what
makes us
what we make
of this:
its & ofs
What might they want, ships,
boats?
The spaceship construction, the
desolate all blown out; you taste
like
petrol, empirical waste, he
exports
words, the quail dun of clean
conscience.
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