it’s become cold in here
listening to Bach
on the flute
from the corner of
every note
spiders ponder the
angle at which they receive light
and days pass
in the manner of
mass shadows
culminating beneath eyebrows
the crease in the forehead
train tracks in the eyelashes
covers the skin of earth
and shakes nostalgia from its course
where no village exists in the grocery store
yet still haunted
by a missing
person sign
for the information
longing for a place
not only on a receipt and
not only the hands of this body
how can memory
webbed as it is with what occurred
still contain pepper
and salt
of a world which
hasn’t and doesn’t


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