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“Being less noble, I became less of a being, at times”

“Being less noble, I became less of a being, at times”

Shell songs and the randomness,
what is food, and how do I get it?
A long time, then shorter time,
maybe no time, agonized over the aphasia,
the obstinacy of the flower,
open window
and fleeting smell,
how the rain gets in us,
materializing itself.

Ready for this actual entering
of the voice,
it’s exact surface-
style looming like a hand made grace,
then vague in the truth we had opened up.

The river in it’s drawer
listening to the oak
bend into two parts-
that deep look into the arrival,
speak, what words,
Come then out of earlier winters weeping?
The sound forced up,
paint pinned (unequal) onto the wall.

How old were we here,
in this copy,
with a look beyond the anecdotal?
Observing the ridges of the bread,
in light- look closer,
the thing is pierced with faith.
Look again- why is there no bottom?


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