small details

      languid and far away

these whispers fail

      they hail

                                 my brother

                                         my mother

jumping over time tricks, lost and wild

     whispers lose against space

 

from another shot

      bleeds a teleological body,

garishly sifting through the means until

      it collides with

                                   present

                                   past

 

      in the beginning all I wanted

was to know how the

      world on a

                         tortoise

                         looked

 

      but what happens

when my two working fingers,

      like vipera, are unable

               to comb for

               the small

            details?

      

      to dig for

mine… mine…

      mine…

ne…

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