to be more aimlessly fluttering at
the window, to shadow all the patterns
it offers each sun. In frames far as eye
I draw my words towards a juggler’s shards
as if our fallings-down our deaths occurred
but did not involve a lot of colloquialized
arm movements, the body language throws. Thus
the shape of your silence when it speaks me
is different than mine in saying you,
though both of them resemble that spasm hymned as
repose lifepause a happen of sorts the way
the horizon’s a long way without meaning to.

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