How Does Inside-out Feel? (poem)



asking myself this question
I already know

like books
all that knowledge,
violinist of a breath;
this time healing has come
to mean some things:

the earth is not an oyster,
Shakespeare omitted me
it is the spare tire that you forgot to take
it is the core of the apple
bitten around
teeth sunk like harpoons,

the wake behind the object,
the mass moving and it cannot brake,
a rigid storm who stalls but blows,
the time it takes to type.
The capture always missing.

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