This is a room
its length and breadth is
hung with the adornments of sense. Not eyes and fingers,
those wishing wells of comprehension,
but needles and veins
that sink and enter
without knocking.
A shape cut from mechanically recovered meat.
Without meaning they push underneath
and tug like a waterfall that comes on like a skull fracture.

Bone of echoes collapses into the other.

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