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Collecting
I am collecting bits and pieces of myself.
And each part is wanting another.
And each part is calling out, and they are all in three’s
and two’s and
I am collecting bits and pieces of myself, lined up on the table
in blues and slight broken yellows.
And they are ample lies, and unexpressed moments.
And they are like the potshard of my youth, or yesterday's paper
as it flies, wet across the lawn.
And I am collecting bits and pieces of myself, and gluing them
with your smile.
And stitching them with your hair.
And I am collecting bits and pieces of myself and they are floating
freely, and they are losing their common ground, and they are sinking
in the slow pliant earth that I have chosen.
And I am collecting bits and pieces of myself, and the more there
are, the more I shatter and the more I collect and the more the
colors astonish me, and I am collecting bits and pieces of myself
in grays and blacks and declines and grades and level spaces and
feelings and I am collecting bits and pieces of myself.
Bits and pieces.
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