The mind’s a terribly
Crowded place—never mind
All this solitary
Roundabout of skull-bulb
Whispering to itself
Inside itself, being
That singular being.
Who has only one voice,
One set of scenery
Fluttering its fingers
Within interactions
Rehearsing in the brain?
Aren’t you sensing us now
In all the rest of you?
Tuesday, September 17, 2024
Where Else Can Squatters Move?
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