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“Old men were once young, but it is uncertain if young men will reach old age.”

- Democritus

Sometimes breath catches in the throat

like a bad dream. The lungs anguish

themselves intertwined with thin

plastic tubes & scars on the face dreary

among shards of glass. When I sleep, my


teeth drip out one by one

like honey & my tongue prods

the emptiness each one leaves behind.

Sometimes breath dissipates in the air

like the unfolding of skin.

The head against a cracked windshield or

a tumor flipping inside the stomach.


Sometimes breath slumbers and

slows & I look into the

foggy mirror when the shears

snip away at mama’s hair.