It’s not true that sand is
uncountable. Everything
is when you have enough
time, vats. The woods,
inevitably, are satire
to the counter, who is
a keeper, not a consumer.
Carving motes, you can
get faster, more or yes
invisible. Just a rumor
that anything shatters,
no, one day you round
the brown trail and, oh, a
funeral, one day you open
up a bag of chips and
inside there’s an orchid.
River
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