The brush burn of dusk. The abstract knuckles of the soul. I square root solitude, but I never grow weary of distance’s forearms.

And if I pause, here, at the ditch before the moon, to sum up
The piles of self greedily practicing the baton.

The shadow of a square root
As I fitted my boots with abstract feathers.

Shapes of self cannot keep pace with a gutsy widening.
The pain is such that we will have to wobble home
Uncanny with size.

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