Nothing breathes here, not the way you're supposed to
where you give back what you take in.
The air is sticky, the sky is wet with a tireless
sun. All the living is done beneath solid ground
away from her prideful, orange eyes.
When your body cries out, nobody will hear it
besides the beetles and the dirt.
The closer you get to the sky, or the sun, or god, you realize nothing
is miraculous.
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