digits
unfamiliar stories of untold absurdities
too habitual
to win my calligraphy.
like scissor on an ice
-cube
permeating a fond collapse of an unfinished
cupid
as i conjugate the summers one after the other
making sense of past tense
and proverbs
the grammar of forgetfulness
woven on a rusty swing
tangled around my neck.
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this is practice
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