In the City of Faults

The line that divides me from you, from the city is here:
on a map, bordered by rivers, ridges, rumors of crickets

in forests. As I trace this line, I can hear you there,
from the other side of the wall. Here: my palms, have it

etched with weathering, hands trembling violently
like tremors waiting for a seismogram to become

a poem, or letters written in bad cursive,
or with sharp edges, wrecking connections

of roads, pipelines, streetlights. Intense
as I may from my core, however, I create

my own cliff, I make it so high so I can
never see you again. Nobody is at fault.

Nobody cares for the falling body.

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