I was reading a lot of Sylvia Plath and Mina Loy, and this happened.

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I’ve tried a thousand, million times
to understand the power.
An hour—
a decreased love, maybe,
and a scream,
or deafened truth;
whatever.

A tribute to the sky
Lust balanced on the earth,
beloved triumph—

and do I care about tomorrow?

The Answer
Can’t Quiet the Question