A subtle maybe
Of dusk
Is in the hips

An attentive pinch
Of self is
A bright aboriginal quiet
Doing pull ups in the dark

A piano fell
On you
But has yet to land
And never will

The self settles like a pencil
In a toaster

Whose legs are imaginary numbers

Sweeping sidewalks for

Needless to say the self
Is wheel ruts if you let it

Speaking drastically
The oomph that is not the self
Presupposes silence

I have made a diorama
Of a mirror
And left it on a driving


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