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Typology: poem


I'm afraid to mention it
but there's a twisted bit
of glass, a drop of spit

in my left eye
or my right. I
really can't help trying

to grab at where
it seems to float
resplendent in the air.

And the light from
this strange new sun
sends the shadows running

around the walls
of the dining hall
slipping down and falling

on the floor to reel
to catch in corners, to congeal
darkly on the ceiling.

And now a spectrum oozes
over once familiar faces,
tightening on surfaces

like plastic shrink wrap
pulling in to fill each gap,
a shell of bright confusion sapping

my strength.
The afterimage lingers
as I bury my face in my fingers.

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