How Much Violence Silence Makes

When the owls saw us,
the world was dying, the snap
of a twig, loud as political
paralysis. We were low to
the ground, crowns of liquefied
claws, we animated ourselves,
cut off our own fingers.
We would fight. Would. We.

How much can Mother be bad? How
much will stratum-rabbit shudder
before Mother? How much violence silence
makes, in old photos, 5D, how much
our brains pulse, our pine cone hearts
husked (how much I jotted down
in this notebook to avoid seeing eyes).

Everyman impotent / unwilling /
barometer negligent, so much
unlearned, so much self-
sabotage.

When the owls spoke:
all of the illusions we live
told us to jump off, to tweest
and shout, socialize our disappearing
existence.

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