too tiny to be seen
by naked eyes, something
with human curves adorns itself
with machine blossoms
and the typeset of altered letters
that make mute cells
simulate speech.
Water isn't reaching as it flows.
The plastic cage that flashes
around the sun is mostly
in your mind. Nor was it made
like a corkscrew or
the doll that represents
a ballerina. The scenery is brass
in your museum of dying thoughts.
I'll polish it for you
until it erodes all the way through.
I'll let the light come hard
from bitter corners.
Your prison immunizes me
against its own seductions.
My existence is not its eruption
or its end. As the body has many contacts
and the soul has few friends: we share
only our contract with death.
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