it’s bad for the lungs to drink the black air. in the walls of the lungs sits soot. all night long my body aches. there’s so much of it, this night. i carry it out, i bring it in, and then i forget, and then it’s morning. even in the lungs the morning switches on. i look around (my habit is back) to see if anything’s gone missing in the night. nothing but a few pages torn out of an extravagant book. and intricately inscribed above the restless conclusion: the morning sun. as if that night without a nose will never come.
Morning
there’s so much of it, this night
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Edgar Degas, Factory Smoke, ca. 1877-79. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Elisha Whittelsey Collection, The Elisha Whittelsey Fund, 1982.