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Tangents
Tangents.
Nothing like the howling roof.
Or the clasps of blades of grass.
Nothing empty as-
Connections of piano keys.
Or horrible things, changes, socks.
Growth,
Or waiting.
Or carpet fibers along the path.
Tangents.
We always go back to small sounds.
Tangents.
We always eat things.
Tangents.
So nothing new came along after all.
Copyright ©
Angelica Tao
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