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After the Exhaustion

I tore down entire cities
to study what lies beneath
concrete slabs, tilted foundations,
the palimpsest of epitaphs.
Grief is leading me down
a dirt road of madness
toward an abandoned town called sanity.
My story is ripening like tomatoes in August.
How can a man pass through turnstiles and tollbooths,
put his signature to a thousand daily contracts,
and yet fail to learn his own name?
What happens in the factories,
the cafes and salons, is as holy as what
gestates in the dusty sanctum sanctorum.
These are two worlds, but they are like the
moon and the sea, and I am living in both.