Sometimes you are right and it is catastrophe
once a day or so but in many spaces an egg
is just an egg and soon can serve as a name.
Spines work like atoms, influence each other
but never touch, become the curb, the crowd,
the canyon. You describe that which is in view
in part to address what is outside of it but I
prefer to corral the edges as a way to hope
discreetly for some given center. Evening
the surface takes filing, makes your mother appear
as a clue and my morning rely on the leather
of plants. I fling at the species of trees you
know well and I become the person I imagine
asleep. Candles not lit boast their potential
to be, as the emptiness of a city at dawn is
righteous: only these years, only our rooms.
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