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Part of me wants to believe memory saves
everything in some Smithsonian of the soul,
like the Akashic records helping Edgar Cayce
remember Atlantean life in perfect detail.
Prehistoric ferns and painted tribes of frogs
pressed in the limestone pages of God’s brain
seduce me with hope—Aardvark to Zygote
safe in some encyclopedia already bound
big bangs ago. But there was no Atlantis
and except for George Romero, dead is dead.
Tint all the graveyards you want with stained glass,
death is just an echo waiting for a sound.
There’s nothing but an empty church in heaven.
A spray of stars I don’t believe in.
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