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Updated: May 29, 2020

In the winter of my nineteenth year I learned cycles                are not created equal (the snake keeps its head as the tail  goes down). Every name I pull out of my hair is a soft        blow to the spine, decibels for Newtons. 

The probability of two stars colliding is approximately one in 250                quadrillion, about 1000 times  less likely than being hit by lightning thrice. In 250 quadrillion realities, 

just one contains the perfect cataclysm  (not to be confused with catechism [when I lie prone and  open to the strike]). Everything else I can survive.

I love the silence of dawn more than the                 silence of hallways – in this Escherine world,  what could I know of ego? A word, after all, is a measurement.                               The hard and soft of knowing, the hard and soft of tongues.

This poem was originally published in New Limestone Review in Sept. 2019.

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