rust is the template of our salvation.
we are all drug addicts and prostitutes,

                                                   ­                                except there are exiles.

we fixate on the mirror to escape
ourselves.

there are no real words, we vanish into
a misspelled being. sight imaginary; thought
symbolic; only touch is ever real.

it’s impossible to think your way out

                                                            ­                           of a refugee camp.

you can only struggle

or be privileged
enough to move like capital across borders
(freely).

the other is injected into me:
it is the denial of the addiction
that is making me sick. *semper eadem.