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Kyle Allan

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Kyle Allan

Kyle Allan

In your silent tongue
undressing my poem
there is
a language
of broken stones
and a lost street
there is
a fist hidden
between two sheets of metal
replicating the mind
a hand of closed maps
a place
surrounded by two ears
hearing every sound
with pain and clarity
including the noise
of light shattering
into rainbows
when I leave the room.

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