Born to the drown
of the mountain (to the
teeth of upper fish)
where four wrists exhibit
no remarkable
signs of grasping each to
each, no movie gloss
of eyes meeting, no end
credit glazing other
than lividity, that ooze
the edges of the flat
immovable rocks
a tug invisible
under a wet air, a
swirl whispering at
once about two solitaries
knotted black
in the blue
of borrowed shirts.
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