Can i hear myself age
to myself, i give that eared
piece of evidence ?
the crackling sounds
of unbolting bones,
as i knee the dead in
A museum of thought,
where on the wall
hang other walls
my erring admission to guilt
with which i may have been
caught living,not really
An egress to the place
where men are born
only superior to each other,
A slow recession,into the dark
receptive to which
i hear the world sulk,alone
i need margins,so i think
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