Why Marking Is Like Recycled Paper
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i wade through the afternoon
the afternoon true weights me
the burden of still evening
is that evening must still be
there is no time to smell,
no smell of time save this
this where we are is hell
and hell is where it is
i mark the books i must
the bookmarks i must eye
are purple and are just
another way to die
the rut
is but
one more
one snore
red ink leaks where red pen drops
like red blood from lazy corpse
we wake this afternoon
we resurrect all things
we reconstruct the text
which vanished in the wings
evening falls on us
prepared receive we it
see if we care we must
tax sin and blindly sit
Labels: Poetry
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