I could be the Other

I could be the other,
a memory where the time slows.

We are fever watching the clock:
sweat rolls down the second hand,
small puddles form at the “six”.

The life of furniture.
We want our hollow feet
couched in skin.

A smoke burning your mouth.
An empty echo of hello.

Where were you before?

I have faith now,
the reality of stuck–anti-dynamic,

watching the bed-bugs fall
along my calf:

wet white dust.
(The skin crawling like hairs

moving in the breeze.)
Keeping it all alive,

for the loss of the world.

Here we owe ourselves
A jar of olives.

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