Another French Cold Press (or Bastille Day)

When she can’t remember what
she wrote
down yesterday, or

last night. When the lyrics
to an old favorite
taste funny

in her mouth. When
she turns left
instead of right to encounter

a street she hasn’t explored
in decades. Gets on a train

and gets off
in a town
she’s never heard of. And

the week feels eight
days long. And the quiet
in her head

alarms her. Then she turns
up the volume
to expose

a new silence
and words almost lost.

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