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                                              too cold to sit outside
                                              and write flowers of
                                              individual poems

                                              it’s alright …
                                I don’t know what I’m talking about trying
                                to get into poem-mode thinking
                                to suck a bit of immanent
                                but unseen pastel line
                                out of the quotidian
                                as if the quotidian
                                existed there of
                                its own accord

                no wonder nothing happens





being & poetry & writing wormhole: moon
thinking wormhole: letter 080514