every day
it’s all
the same.

together, it blurs. coagulates.
fills furrow-trod brain grooves
like grout. experience withers

on the vine, in the leaves, leaves
little brittle dust-skeletons
decomposing on the bathroom tile

so deficient they can’t grow a garden—
only this greying grieving heaving
metastasising mass breathing

again again again
once more once more
the same the sa...

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