he writes me
about
the color of sky
about the silence
of the aftermath
the summer storm
full of angry breath
as if hannibal
rode out of clouds
dividing and conquering
while grass flattened
like women, from his fist
no feathers falling from angels
a death
small enough
to hold in my hand
and in this moment
he understands the pain
of being alive
understands the need for it
his sky is
all i see
as i close my eyes
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