RIDDLE
is not a mirage or a mirror is not a puddle
the world upside down inside
not bright silver or dark silky and polished to reflect not the curtains
the night fell heavy on the lid
undecided but perhaps soon between the barbarian roar of the motorway (background not heard) the song of birds suddenly aware playful
ear or maybe a smile at seeing the human form of the corkscrew with arms raised
is speechless anxiety in the stomach
unloading trucks of memories is not upset when everything is wrinkled when it bites clothing
when everything gets lost at the wrong rate and the waves break us in the face and flies into the mouth we
is perhaps a desire to quiet flowing venture beyond the predictable spiral navel
suspicion even in
dark wet in the territory where it develops seeds intact
dancer preparing to dance by invisible strings as the route of a butterfly
as the graph plots the intensity of Sighs over time
beyond music metal hammers ominously predictable
beyond bureaucratic syntax wears senses
inseparably at least three are blended here:
I sense a sweet heat flavor color sound or any of the many open to the enigma
apparently secured the pain felt in fear of passion burning glare or any emotion that shakes, breaks, open the enigma half hidden behind a mustache
normalized standard language in the sense glimpses of understanding that we put, for convenience, in a hilly area or roof
where on summer nights you can see stars as big as fists
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