some slips of pink seem
brushed in, someone's
hand, a moving
humidity, holding delicate swaying
ribbons in layers.
there are no lies nature.
contracts are concrete, petrified.
deception is only for survival
there. the purpose is not
sheer meanness but preservation.
that sky, a polaroid developing...
being waved so the chemicals
mix with oxygen and
a lasting document, is made
like a memory or a dream
you can't shake. no matter what.
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