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Is it the wind's shape
or a skeleton inside
that won't rest for flesh
aching under archways
or strung on a flame's last flick
a room at the center
a feast for those who can't find their way
the speed of sound waves passing on the shape of the mirror
balanced forces in a drop of the supercold
energy from a purple figment in old buildings, caves, burrows
the wires and the porcelain the ice in a commune pool

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