February 28, 2008

Of

all the space we’re given, all,

one wooden room, planks

nailed to the walls, & us

, a derivative. Supersession’s

duplicates winking to each

other. This ⌂ too has a trajectory

torn, burnt, or exploded to be re-pieced

or imagined again, bound in a series.

It’s only a matter * time, spaced in space,

we’ll look around, gather our things.

It strikes me that leaving is all we have

left, one fractal second to the next.

Hilary Grimes


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