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Looking for it after sunset, low on the horizon,
Its brief circuit, there
Then gone, another destination they thought, once,
And afterwards, after our arrival,
Only a planet, innermost, circling with its old language
Still with it–shimmer and loss–
Old messenger, still making the rounds:
Eternity must be relative, imago to orb–
Afterwards, what is there, grackles landing on the still
Bare maple, the thin rain of early
Spring, a shower from Lyra, emerald Vega–what is
Left among us but the counting out
Of beat after beat, the cattle of gods they are
Called, the break of silence
We wrap around us to keep going, not lose the way,
As a wasp caught between panes of light
Finds no passage, its longing consuming
The sprawling world outside: bee-killer, predator
Desperate in its message to the world–
After I crack the sash and storm, it sweeps out,
Unthankful and relentless, a jab of light, carrying no
Whisper of leaves, no language but hunger
In its circuit, an orb pitched and gone–no
Choice but the traverse of light to dark.
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Draconian individual punishment distracts from systemic change and reinforces the cruelest and most racist system of incarceration on the planet.
Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.
“I was my father’s son. My father was Nai Nai’s least favorite.” A Taiwanese American man, driven from home by a secret, reevaluates his childhood memories of his grandmother.