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the selling

don't you want

to be uplifted by song, by wine,

by love, by experience,

by hatred, by activism,

by layered bits of cotton and wool

painted in pretty colors?

They ask us this all the time.

and yet, we are made of

all the things that they try to invent:

a bloody heart that beats to a billion different rhythms,

a frame of bones that climbs mountains

or guides music

or opens windows to drink afternoon sunlight,

we are made of colors and shapes

we float in seas and we sing

and we taste

and we burn,

and maybe the sellers need to take their turn

and put down their wares

and let oceans drown

their hollow stares.

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