Simple cathedrals strain inside this cramped space.
The nostril hairs sift the smells of cooking food
potatoes and chicken.
Muscles knot up, competing for space with bone and tendon.
Inside the abdomen is a fatigue, intense and relentless.
Desperate and abandoned, but confident in appearance.
The moment blazes with its hidden beauty
and waves goodbye as the water runs down the drain.
Coffers and cups running over,
weeping with the day. Still. Still.
I am standing still.
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You are a graphic writer, I’ve never encountered anyone writing about nostril hairs in a poem before! haha
hee!