do not know how we're succeeding but the time, shattered into a thousand pieces, is add up here.
This house on the water picks up many of my season and the past is part of this horse's future to be hiding with malice in the folds of a provisional metaphysics.
I freed yesterday
scandal to exist.
I will not even today
prefer the lightness of
think
to the days when I weighed
little
and face had freckles
full
poppies in summer as a
cornfield.
What I was transfigured
every day, what
does not even have
to deceive.
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