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Awaiting Good News in Purgatory 

Coldness of a debilitating expanse,
(Layered with varying degrees of shadows,
Like flipping through swamp-soaked pages of a dissolving book,
Its spine of uninhabitable mercury
Snaking through town)

is expanding to hug the window. 

Fog on the glass thieves the reason you’ve walked into the room. On the sill,
an absence huffs through nostrils of a void. 

You wander to the cabinet,
opened to see it’s well-stocked:

Cereal, dried fruit, spices, nuts, olive oil, and more,
And then between the sugar and bread––flat spaciousness

Is emptying. 

You remember a dream of a bullet hole in the normalcy of your chest,

The claustrophobia of the wound pressed to mind,
And forgotten, but for the smell of sulfur,
lingering with the sense of something irreversible.

But you’ve awakened to a nonexistent gunshot,
Yet somehow, you’re unrelieved.

You hope for patience while awaiting your corner of paradise:

good news that learns. 

“Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.”   

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