We Who Want the Weight of Rain Around Us

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after Brendan Joyce

The gnaw of wind against bodies and their exhaust
of atmosphere and lung. Concave, like the barracks
at the end of the mind          where even the clouds
have reached maximum capacity and the rain too
is falling.          And the country is wracked
with the knowledge of rain:

          of bodies drenched in capital, of the dream
of sleeping in, of this sky and its slow return to morning.
          Even the trees immolate in solidarity of this
burning earth; i
          heard only whispers i
                    the trees, i mean, i
          can never guarantee safe passage
                    in sleep.

     Even the rain and its cold fingers against
us; the saxophone tossing its sounds around
        the voice again but louder
               the lines and their jagged
        enjambment / performed
                a perfect arson.

        Even the wind, unbeknownst to itself, is a class traitor
shivering insurrectionists. Even the sun
        and our sweat. Even the
               stars and — Say it — even the moon,
        with only a segment of squall
              struck by streetlight —

       Even the moon — excerpt search term anywhere
which is my own interior / this purple, this barking
       circular empty. To the lavish dapper catalogued air
               strikes peppered across its asphalt heart.
       The city said what to the unhomed and cold — Even
               the moon, in its lurid umbraic oculum — hates cops
                                        and urges onward

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