Domus - - CONFETTI -

There must be a word for a per­son who longs to run into the eye of a storm, a word for ev­ery tree that lies slaugh­tered on the streets af­ter a cy­clone. A word like lachry­mose or pul­monary. A word for they have left you alone to face your doom. In Aleppo. In Aleppo. I can­not speak of Aleppo.

Only that it is the op­po­site of breath.

There must be a word for the walk home at night. Your be­long­ings in two bags, feet in mud. For a fam­ily think­ing they will re­turn. Maybe the house still stands. Maybe the sea. The dead leave no clues about what lies be­yond. We call it eter­nal. We call it now.

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