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April 4, 2024 / barton smock

othermade machine

This is not a poem like that is not a body. Each movie playing is an extra room. Eyesight the impossibility of nearness. Touch is always too young to have visions. My death is empty. We’re not close. My death is empty but my ghost death is on all fours. You can put ghost anywhere. Bomb ghost. Ghost wrist. At my saddest, my shadow does its best to be me looking at a black watch. What time is it there? Time of death 

is it there

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