it's like minimal contact
to the resuscitating suspect
of the low winds that seek to rise!
every direction sign
seems to get it wrong,
it's a giant canopy
getting stuck at the
end of every page:

the articles of my existence,
the drama of karma,
the dance of nothingness,
the holding of one's eyes
from seeing unwanted but known faces,
the method of separation,
the battle of interrogation,
all these words, nothing but
seizures of idleness:
speak pen, speak!

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