What stays. Stone barracks, a garret room, a too-high window.
Like a rich woman in furs, she warms her hide with soft targets.
Mother be forgotten, buffalo meat cut to strips to dry. The sun.
the priests—told the neighbors not—to sell their houses—told the white neighbors—not to sell their houses to black people—that to do so would be a beginning of an end
Climb until every pixel
of the sky’s bloom falls directly into your view.
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