These are the moon’s blue colors, or many of them. These are the rainstorms at the hurricane’s mouth. These are the colored chambers that break our fingers, break them and outline our faces. These are the bones cracking inside our planetary hands. This is the smoke that creates isolation. This is the smoke that is the beauty of darkness. These towns concentrate on the heavens from their bluegreen shadows. I’ll make words to ripple forever, placing them in the hands of one hundred years. There is so much rubbish up in the clouds. This is for the terrified persecuted ones.

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