The late insects are trading places, the breath
of one left behind for the breath of another.
I’m almost inside the hole that I have created.
Death says, It’s a small room
you live in, Body. Come out and play.
There’s an absence coming from the window.
The air is a hinge in a huge discrepancy.
It’s a secret. I don’t even know it myself.
The skies part. The water’s upon me.
It feels like only me, and I reel back, caught
by the lure of something beyond my surface.
Somewhere nearby there’s an endless war.
The rain still fills its empty bowls.
I wonder if the leaves have forgiven me yet.
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by Fawzy Zablah
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