open

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you’re still very small: you

don’t take up much room,

 

here in this swollen

swoon of little sips and

 

tiny turn-key tips

like bread-crumbs

 

to follow down

this crooked path.

 

you create your own

paucity of time, which

 

is always

just enough,

 

just tucked into your

breast-pocket as you

 

dig through hidden

portholes, running

 

straight-laced lines

directly to the muse;

 

swiftly turning the hurried

world upon its haptic head.

 

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