Sweating through my clothes
in the distant face
of no imminent danger.
At least I’m bulletproof.
I’ve covered my vital organs
in a thick layer of poems.
At least I’m buoyant if I fall in
cold water. I’m clutching
a chapbook that turns into a life raft.
At least I’m fireproof. I’m
surrounded by an impenetrable wall
of verse.
At least I’m well-documented.
If I die, if my heart fails me
with all this stress, you’ll know
exactly who I was.
Dark Matter 
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