My form is a machine My breath is punctuation
it will work all day pretending to be a landfill
on knots of goodbye of commas, frozen periods;
--going, going, gone-- it turns up the light, keeps
hard to say--if that's inky spaces of silence and
even--home? heaven? whispered sleep to myself
also, which way home looks me in the eye, parses
--the world is so small the dirge of a sigh, impresses
yet full with forgetting the stray forevers of my lips
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