Early Indicators
by james bezerra
Like the stamping horse
that feels
an earthquake coming,
or the shark
smelling blood
from a distance
I'm learning
they can sense it on me,
like bourbon
like smoke,
like red ink,
I emit
a vibrating little wave
of broken.
I think women
can calculate
the sad of me,
that I haven't yet
been emptied out,
that toxic asset love
still on my books.
My collapsing emotional markets,
a wholly optional earthquake
they don't need.
.
.
.
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