find your towel now, holding down some young eyelid.
like any other day as a sink setter,
as a hand washer, as someone who holds doors,
can't learn a goddamn thing about flesh,
can't capture a little word to hold you.
i am yet a fragile mix of memories,
fresh fruits and black tar tongue.
i speculate about the man next door,
the feelings of inconsistency,
the brush touch of lovely life, lovely rage.
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