Neversmoker
Grieving, I walked all day. Downhill toward mountains
risen out of dawn and rising into false mist.
Grieving, I walked all day. Downhill toward mountains
risen out of dawn and rising into false mist.
The night before driving to the mountain,
you want, very much, to be clean.
We knew some of it was sculpture,
In the building all’s being built in:
“As I wrote, I was curious if I could transform my insomnia into a space of reconciliation, of staying in conversation with my discomforts and my ancestors until I no longer felt haunted but rooted.”—Monica Ong
“I do think it’s a poet’s job, a writer’s job, an artist’s job, to name what often goes unnamed; to render the familiar absurd.”—stevie redwood
“Like someone history whispers about.”
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