softly i see
the horizon
the way from here to there
it paints like a landscape
pushing me back (mom told me not to stare)
and takes a while to grab you,
but does not play in time
no different from the table i used to write
like graffiti, a cloud, or an orgasm
i want to die in public
words are a massacre, one substituted for another
while life sits softly and looks beyond itself
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