of things I will soon
be left out of
watching sky lines in mutation
from the dim perch
of a straw chair
tapping at the pierced can's
insidious music
soaked on a flat stone
scraping lips of earth
at the corner of
a replicating monument
putting up the jellied aglow antennae
blood's pulp in a shrinking nest
strung letters to an open mouth
buttons of an oven's mask
in plastic talking.
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