we are running out of pages
we are rewriting memories,
ink on ink,
word on word
carve them into our hearts
remember them--
learn from them
polish our rusted lungs
if acid is what it takes,
use it
scrub the stains off
before they infect like disease
& all we can do
is paint them a fresh coat of paint,
over--but never into the heart
giving thanks:
four more minutes
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