1679
5.218
6.viii.24
expect a certain
street to be there
imagine myself gone
face in every direction
a slatted shine
corner from which nearly
for some it is not a matter to cling
it’s only now and away, nothing then
no trespass
as if on my own wings
yet one might remain
the weather fell upon
these are the traces you see
this is my mirror –
a page
when I was far asleep
when I was away
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