1686
5.254
11.ix.24
it’s personal, this world
the aches and
turns
grip whiff
this pressure
too
all of it an
imperfection
time having
worn the ways
a narrow
window
sleep taking
where and will
grab this
a guess to get
going
nothing given
a guess to go
on
one’s name on
it
in stars down
world’s fine,
a private place
once knew of
us all
sticks to my
feet
its spins
drags down
and to the nth
degree
and in
conclusion
a kind of epitaph
for each
a dedication
the leaf of
just one flight still ours
there’s no one keeps up with this world
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