The word itself is a wall
made of windows
and broken frames.
Mind moves over
a seascape, builds bridges
between the waves.
Now you are doing it,
that thing,
creating vineyards
with buckets of sand.
The script, the writing,
it is a harvest sown
by a form yet unborn.
It means nothing,
yet nevertheless
wine pours
then all antecedence,
all inference
returns to scratches
upon a cooling mud
and it is that mud,
the mud on...
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