Certain deans lean in hallways clean the doorways flapping and windows winding slow in teams
Chaos en majestic haze, so clear though you could stay forever and not even    know it

Sending — receiving dash dash line see the punched print out fall through the hol

But what is contained within information, what colors the head of a pin I wonder as I fumble under fanning recollection, collections in time
call this… mind

It is strange when everything become sign, in waving line
even those what we see with, eyes
see eyes
waking up in two places is a moment unreal, it leave spaces
as fine drifting lace days
mind a cloud, a many face say

Traces

 

 

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Published by Tom Lopes