LOVESONG MATURING IN THE BRINE

Holepunched honeycombs,
the pockets of my speakers’ bones,
amber homes spitting fragments
of protester’s language.

Sounds like
lovesong
maturing in the brine,
preserving what compassion
we have left this time.

Protesters care. I care.
We should care–
those who occupy the space
called punk.

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