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<
TRUSCOTT/ BIO




LATE
​
​

Why fire in
windows? East
glass faces
west as I
approach on
foot, glancing
up. Among
the flames’
reflected liquid
leaves fall
late, and I
am caught in
a play of
half-seen but
held on
to. Its music
false, it
nevertheless
scalds the
palate.
To walk,
preoccupied,
along the
consensual
sidewalk.
To realize one
used to find there
a belief
in the renewing
aperture of dawn
and one’s
own dreams.
The street is
an array of
combustible
residues of
previous calculations.
The sun offers
nothing
but innocent
frequencies.

© COLUMBA  |  ​​​​​​ISSN ​2564-1271

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