I am far from myself
And I watch over me
From the brink of the world,
Dead as a rock,
Blithely brainless.
Long ago I went into labor
And gave birth to poems,
They live on the brim of a glass,
Fall one way and drown
Fall the other
And are isolated forever.
Some poems live wholly
In their aloneness,
Others withstand a lengthy euthanasia
That culminates in bereavement.
I pop them out until one stays,
Maybe years will go by,
I will peel off layers of stone and
Let my ugliness come off,
And different words
Will be the same,
And they will thrive in
Utter and unfathomable Existence,


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