Poetics

A September Song.

Listen to their uninterrupted sirens
They are the hosts of unsung bodies
It is a September Ten now and there is no sun
Just them, in costume.
Now there is an orchestra
I have no way of getting into,
I’m not invited into my own body,
I like short sentences,
Tomorrow will be September Ten.
I do not play an instrument,
I have to dispose off this host

This body’s sirens,
There is music here, silent.

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