What I forgets to leave
Here and what I forgets
It is here not home to itself
Like bodies the fan whirs
In the room a metaphor
Or something for conscious
ness this voice around
The air is something you
Swear to this that you will
Be you to me so this darkness
Where I must imagine your
Touch is more than me
Or you this discourse of
The senses more than any
thing one amounts to.
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