Poem
“There’s no one here. It’s like a museum.”
In empty space—a paradox;
your lips are not your own.
I have condemned the crowd;
a shard of pottery is halfway
done changing my life.
I am shattered—we are;
the tapestry moves through me.
I did not deface these statues of Hermes;
one person makes a crowd
I must not change my life.
Trompe l’oeil—scraps of sight;
press my face against the rock.
He marked the fall with his body;
take a corner of the blanket
and pull for feeling’s sake.
Words-not-words, lips-not-your-own.
A flamelet, a curvet, a rock.
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