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They never did. Saints could care less if we need rest from the world.

It's my brain I guess. I admit to it. I admit to it now, I guess.

They discard the beautiful intricacies of my corpus callosum

excoriating that which isn’t judged so reasonable or definitively human

dried out of me like the trace of a dandelion saved between pages

though that goes the other way ‘round too, you know. Think.

This particular night wasn't into being so intimate

and all other types of emotions are very low on our list:

reproach in response to mourning. This is not love and I do not want it.


It was “to want”

beyond the body’s small capacity

to foster energy.


it was to break the world raw

into soft, silvery white: a surfeit of Eskalith.

This is a basic sample. This is loss of control.

But now we are spiked in the wanting.

Before it was the good work of burning.

A person made universal

by the escalation

as though you knew

how it would present itself

and how you’d lift it

like ash levied from stars.


And anhedonia in her head.

There were wreathes of flowers

in tight chain of weeds, tellings.

The wreathes filled me with rage.

Their story blooms of nothing.

RAY OSBORN is a poet and painter living in Toronto. Ray’s writing focuses on elegy, love, and neuro-divergence, as well as being ekphrastic in nature.

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