It’s a whisper, life.
A moment on a mirror,
a mark on the mat.
The frittering of fortune in the measuring of minutes,
as harassed hosts of a hillside buffet.
Where persecution is revealed between our bones, what can one do but nest in taxi after taxi?
A socialite drifting from bubble to bubble, wondering where myself went.
A black beret,
embroidered with the strings of Saturn’s shifting –
where does one go but not to chaos without?
Fallen whatever my action,
broken in symmetry,
yet drawn by infinity.
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