No differences accrue
standing naked in the doorway
with your bouquet
of shirts. I knew a tiny
man with a fork in his own thigh
by his website. It begs
a definition of knowing. Love, it is not soft
for confabulists. It is like a banquet
where one wakes already stammering
between drool, a ghost
eyeing plates for the future
of its name. A person, likewise, is a horde
of accumulations, mostly
unknown. It begs a definition.
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