Monday, June 17, 2024


The phrases feel estranged,
As if estranged themselves,

As if each text were boxed,
A folded cube of home,

A model house to set
Among the other blanks

Without doors or windows,
Without interiors,

Making up the city
In which people pretend

To be living to get
Some kind of perspective

On not really being.
You step up to a cube

Of neighborhood phrases,
Place a palm on smooth blank.

You’re obviously here,
But you still can’t get in.

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