Buried

Masks chained on halfway
through long form facial surgeries.
Warehouses full of old hardware,
like gliders they would jump off of
cliffs with, and boats that have separate
slots to keep dead fish.

Deflated aluminum sculptures, crushed
almost purely by heat, are a sign
to anyone that sees them. The open spaces
they once made special now are severed
from their source.

They let their time fall away without remorse.
Taking all that they could carry and burying
it in the separation of the picture from the
page. There is no single sage that has the
answers for the rest of us. The wind gets
colder as the day continues on, and the
wisest among us always knows that they
are wrong.

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