.
Explain
this to me, would you, dear? –
how
you, who breathe the atmosphere
I
breathe, and witness day and night
and
up and down and left and right
.
with
sight presumably not unlike what
my
eyes take in, experience a glut
of
swarming, loud, sensate hyperbole
where
only silent absence seems to me
.
to
be, and otherwise imply the “real”
is
so inordinate you can’t begin to feel
the
groaning board of it. I’m in the dusk
in
emptiness while you’re the brusque
.
besieged
eternal target of internal war.
Is
it simply I see less, and you see more?
Who
is yes and who is no? I am my scars.
You’re
furiously overcome by stars.
.
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