571.

The years stack up in
a mirror, highlighting this
vision repeated.

570.

We speak through our screens,
each letter an emotion
echoing backward.

569.

The cacophony,
muted in her arms, still turns
me round in circles.

568.

What disease of the
bones makes my limbs bend into
this caricature?

567.

I think of the way
his lips fold lies and my mouth
returns in hunger.

566.

What is it to be
reduced to idolatry
and a dream's soundbite?

565.

The sky is cast in
canopy, holding up the
world's weary vision.