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I. rocks you saw before
It seems we talk only of California.
Of outlines.
Traces.
The cloud-colored sheets wrap you.
Like candy.
II. dust
We’re still deciding.
Our days gather and disintegrate in ways
we can’t quite name.
The word dust.
If we move slowly,
our projects overtake us,
fading in evening patterns.
You toss everything with that tired mood.
The velocity is off.
We fall forward without
worry, without doom.
III. bricks
The hours rise from the floorboards.
Our instruments feel foreign today.
Toil catches in the broken morning,
steam swelling from buildings, from bricks.
No one can properly explain gravity.
We stand on street corners,
screaming at each other,
minting new definitions.
If we are afraid,
what of it?
We’re treading through ourselves,
hands stuffed violently into heavy coats.
We can’t leave the picture alone.
It must be framed wider, flatter.
The rest remains a hush.
We look for the spot that
looks like our life,
then draw it.
Marks moving across the page,
quickly showing who we are.
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