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May 2010
Staring at a carpet,
he submits the mind
to a haze. She stands

up and counts by twos.
Why do we see a turning?
Almost time to pack up,

he waits for a certain
impulse. The blue car
with a flag for some

sticker is cold and
happy. Instead of a
clock, he uses the

broken fog to direct
his worthless trip
to that tired store.
Free poem by Chris Everson - 2001
Kongsaeng Chris Everson
821
 
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