the irregularity of
monotonousness is now absorbed.
the obduracy observed from white
paper that was
glued to its kind did not surrender
to make a pretzel of a wasp.
but I saw a
swallow tail catching the air,
persiflaging me. it knew how I
missed it.
the silence on the refectory grew into
my lips like lava salvaging itself till
it became
obsidian. & with a chest of choices,
I stand, looking at a fjord of my
doctor’s
prescriptions. It felt like winter
when I felt the recesses outside my
thighs:
sideways, green. if a year was to pass
without this stimulus, it would /
should
be parthenogenesis. the streetʼs
greenness turns into chips for the
conquest
of the feet. from the generosity of
deciduousness, the streetʼs greenness
breaks
with a sweet sound. consistently.
the season could be an appendage to
a hole of
memories. it scars everybody with a
part song; pectoral scarring —
precarious.
& when the season goes, it would be
like cowering a human artery & letting
the ownerʼs
shadow mix with the still wind without
disrupting any light. the earth is now an
intolerable
interstice, blurred.
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