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you have to choose now
whispers a sleepy voice,
don’t think too much
about what comes next.
even a stomach emptied of bile
continues retching out of
obligation to its function as a muscle.
what of the brain? or the heart?

i’ve never been to a funeral
or a functioning cemetery
that wasn’t a tourist attraction
or a walk in the wood.

sometimes we call the lies
that feel like dreams: poems.
disorienting and delusion,
this is not your house.
do not sleep here.