Greenish silence sits
upon a greenish bench,
reflecting on the powerful
propensity for featurelessness
which accounts, apparently,
for everything. Strange
to spend eternity in isolation
and in speechlessness.
Ah, well, there’s the bench:
running right and left to no
apparent ends. Perhaps they
could be friends. He wonders
why he bothers wearing his
small greenish briefs. Who
cares how he’s endowed?
It’s not like there’s a crowd.
.
.
.
.
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