According to the LA Times
So many people are dead in Los Angeles they’ve stopped
limiting how many cremations can be performed each day.
Even as the silt of our former neighbors drifts in the window’s corner
or settles in the spine of a palm frond, inside, we continue not to die.
The dog is nestled between us, oblivious in that warm territory
and our six lungs billow with sunlight, ash, the sweetstench
of jacarandas and morning breath.
Someone else’s memory catches in my throat, and I lift the white sheet
over us, greeding for borrowed breath, and another, and another
so that we may survive together, just like this.
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