proportional speculation

Les Krims, 1970, spitting out the word p-h-o-t-o-g-r-a-p-h-y

Hope was my greatest sin. —Clarice Lispector, from “The Disasters of Sofia”

Your and my immunity are fated these dragged, hot days.
In a burning world, my dreams saturate. Mostly trees,
thick, green, with moss thick as absence. Caution—
only longing and sunny winters ahead. Toward is a feeling.
Away a noun. What luck has found us both still breathing?
Our futures have become increasingly jealous of the past.
Portents of death a spammed life—forgettable.
Self as a frequency. Do you know how to want less?

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