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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