though written seven hundred years ago
still
like a child
holding onto the house
naked and tense
indeed
something was missing and swaying
while so it was
firmness and burstable
the likelihood of shimmer
fuzzy lines and sleepy forms
and heat and fullness
like study laid bare
like structure bound and released
trials
and exacting weight
where something happened
and pleasing to taste
a time standing scores
countless and misty was the surge
of passages soaked inward and incomplete
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