Air that holds me up to this burnt day,
let me fall.
The floor will open up,
I will drop beneath this unbearable,
immaculate place where life scrapes,
down into the roots that muzzle
the desultory girls,
the traitors who sold their teeth,
the tyrants with their dainty fingers.
I don’t want this inheritance of ache anymore,
I don’t want what I cannot repay
in a hundred lifetimes of drunken contrition.
I want to build a cathedral of all my sorrow
for others to worship with incense and hysterias.
Then I will go on pilgrimages
far into deserts without conviction,
into wastelands that erase all my gods.


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