A village, old families,
isolated and comfortable,
a few hundred souls,
established on the edge of belief
so long ago.

Farmers farm,
traders wish,
but no travellers journey through:
here, paths end.

Maybe the village breathes above an unexplored ocean,
maybe it glows beneath unpassable mountains,
maybe it warms an edge of an emptiness so infinite
that all the solar wind that could ever boil
could never push a life across.

image: po

Dylan Harris

it's my hands
my difficulty with melancholy
hence the coldness
fear in flight, god
dog sea
push pop

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