By Dylan Willoughby

There is no such thing as seeing through 
The windows fail
Is that really rain?
Or the outpouring of lost souls?

I will not decipher you

Lately, you have entered me 
As if I were a mortal thing 
Hungry for life 
Nonetheless, I ask you to remain

Mark the profligate twin clocks
Come closer than I am to myself

I tell you we are not made of the past 
Aitios is fool’s gold
Yet some nights we summon

Dylan Willoughby is a permanently disabled poet and composer, born in London, raised in Canada, the US, Chile, London, and elsewhere, and currently living in Los Angeles.  Dylan’s poetry has appeared in Stand, Agenda, Shenandoah, Salmagundi, Denver Quarterly, Green Mountains Review and other journals, and Chester Creek Press has published three limited-edition chapbooks.  He received an MFA from Cornell, and fellowships from Yaddo and MacDowell.  He record music as “Lost in Stars,” and have been featured by The Los Angeles Times, Entertainment Weekly, Echoes (NPR), KCRW (NPR), Nylon, XLR8R, Insomniac, Impose Magazine and elsewhere.

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