It’s dirty
looking and it
won’t come off. It
has sun in it
the dirt rolling into me
until I’m aerated and mud.
blastules cornering me, blastopores
excreting
in me
The tiny limbs of veins
didn’t grow out of me into the earth
till
I died
when I did not look at myself at all.
You see it’s like we’ll be together forever
so
why should we talk. It’s like parents.
As
looking at bright mountains
against
a sky. They are sort of flaming
and
it is your eyes.
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