i have no excuse
lying on my back,
an ache behind each eye,
sand coating my throat.
i have no excuse
for this recurring dream
in which i am covered
gently
by the dirt,
making the mistake
of opening my mouth.
i remember you tried
to burn your prints away
but the groves, the loops
healed back, revealing
there's no such thing
as starting over
just again,
and a third time,
as if this were practice,
as if life were practice.
why not be here now
before we cough up
the mud of the past?
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