we move like glass
words through a tunnel
bow to the wind and away
from sky.

like clouds clotting air
obdurate confidence
and scarce of color

wearing things too tight
in places where the wind
pinches us uncomfortably
and whips us into attention

we lull and we stir
awe with saturation
in steps. black rock

unfinished tunes
distraction and always
the wind

running running running like
it forgot to turn off the oven
somewhere on
the other side of the world

sharing our photos taken
from unsuspecting prey never
to be put back in the right

filtering light from water
and wind. we all delve
deep unto the black things between
our hands.

except these machines
are always mercilessly leaving
our fingers bent and our eyes
with a metallic residue, but somehow


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