i have something in my hand

five fingers, finging freely, one’s a question the rest are really

unencumbered. holding nothing, flexing, vexing, wrestling control from each other in a coordinated jerking motion arranged by a strange relation of theirs, high up, above another chair.

the first is who, clearly someone nearly identical to what but that’s skipping ahead to

now. what is the second, statement, phrase, fragment. a piece a piece of pieces, everything arranged, the marriages, the fleeces.

when is what we hate, the time, this piece a fragment of a whole that is so, much, better. so ffuck you for making me think of it

where is immediate but deceiving, you can be in the breast of a mountain, cradled against the rock, pulled and pushed by the wind, trying to tear you away, and suddenly you can be here. right here. you’re right here now. you’re trapped.

we don’t speak of the pinky, oh i know you want to, cheeky you.

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