Parched. Parched like the texture of Egyptian papyrus 
the holy lands scribbling away at my bottom lip. I 
am abandoned. Have been. That is, not in some measure
to deserve attention, but in the manner of being 
completely free. That within me which soothes the aching self 
flies and joins her soul to willow, one city park over. 
My grunting aches fire out, eventually
no longer gasping for attention, no longer seeking 
any unification. I am what remains after
canoeing across the Pacific Ocean. I am 
what remains after swimming from Siberia to Babylon. I 
am that which claws itself to the surface again, again 

to open the inner sanctum. The air that breathes after
the candle. The light that wishes the world good night. ‘Tis she. 


Rozell, 2022.

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