If it ever is
as it will be,
then enough is
enough. They
think in clusters
round the interminable
subject all but
lost to my mind.
Well, here I am,
they say, together.
Or here you are,
them, and it.
Let’s build a house of
human pieces, arms
and hair, not telling
anyone. Shout
from the feet, face
facts as accumulations,
we can
do it.
Or and, and as
it’s done, what flesh
can do, home again,
we’ll say,
we’ll fall down streets
rolling,
balls
of clear substance.
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