Splijtstof in the time of Coronavirus

Poem

It melts losing its form,Turning into a sculpture.I can hear it no more,For it sways within a furry forest,Buried in wax,A muffled sound escapes. Stretch

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Images

I looked around and saw all theWindows and trees and hairdosBrick, recemented, old, differentHeights and browns and entrances,Rusty bikes; the Mediterranean groceryThe organic butcher, Turkish

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Poem

⠀⠀⠀⠀In the dark crème living room and the brown crooked streets outside⠀⠀at night—⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the numbers keep shooting up⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀on the yellow television screen.

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