We can never master details,
the way poets do
the way old, mad story tellers do
collecting stones for stories
we are useless toward the fumble of a tear
we function on too little, little money, small pleasures
of showing teeth, sealing redemption with an eyeless sun
We all move, unaffected by the small things
all unaware that our lungs are pierced, oozing out
last pieces of oxygen
last fruits from trees
where the details begun.
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