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  • Standing beneath railway remnants,
    you are drawn in pencil, a wet pebble
    buried at Bełzec. Slow, crushed by drinking
    root hairs of a sapling. White rock
    is bone. Dust on your tired fingers,
    ash. Pregnant clouds pierced by sunlight.
    Midday abortion brightens your thirsty
    eyes. The smell of rust scrapes high into your
    sinuses. Snap out of it with the sound
    of a shutter, smile of a friend.
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