• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 07
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Wandering a rough back lane
A humid evening, skin and paint peeling
Rust blooms, as if emerging
from within
within the joints, her pores, the bones, her ducts.

So much was once discarded
Yet kept, just in case. In case of needing
Scraps from the past, tight clutching
they become
become present, not past, reeking compost.

She will make herself relive
That stick, this hurt, that grudge, punctured wheeling
Of life a still life making
a collage
a collage of the beauty of decay.