1416
4.320
17.xi.23
the
black dog of duty
or
risk
of self
things broken such as ourselves
things let range, let wild
days tricked to paper
lines tight
little terrors
a swallowing wish
a page, a canvas, screen needs filling
which of us not towards death?
fact spare of drift thus far
aren’t there the same claws?
a self consisting
where some have called for truth again
lapse into the blank about
perhaps because of such a fear
drive myself on like rain
as if purpose might find us
where there’s none at all
by way of ache too often reminded
easy distances
and go to the place you’re not
a headswell
a heartsup
see to this not arriving
there’s nothing possible advised
I get it
a whole world
whistling here
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