1862
6.35
4.ii.25
my self machine
tuned to the
making
all moving
parts
must, of
course, be imagined
and sometimes
unmoved
can’t be
arsed
words fall
from a sky
yet to set
can you see?
wings upward
of a wish
webs strung
to join the
dots
throw paint
over the day
throw caution
to the world
it’s just as in
our sleep
you guess
until you’re gone
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