after Jami Attenberg and Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre
It’s nearly there, in this Time of _________________
Like the opening of what is sterile, or unescapable.
Everything is struggling to acquire, wrestle-down, secret and hurt
You, your story, your tale – the toil draws near its close – but know that
Love, love is still alive, living on the shore of it, suffering-broke, broke
Broke, but functioning, in makeshift, or re-cataloged into something new,
At once, visionary, novel, primitive – as all of our urges return to us, but
Once, one day, soon from now, we will remember the art of our solitude:
the love of it.
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