A Final Note On The Weight of Breath
by Andy Buck

one eye (the Left)
to the public's people
and the Other sliced by shadow
breathing inches into the
upper arm:  of Me, hidden

this is me
dopey eyed for
a buffet of strangers (or "By")
but all at the same time darting through
this intricate subway system
which is made by electricity
(the Right)

I can hear them
but they don't exist on Sundays
eating socks
all cotton, all cottony
all laughing at themselves
but they can hear me hello
see my sock smile

I turns heads when I
turn my head
throwing the Other
into this big and old and big pot
the WU YU for flavor

"don't stick to these goals" ...

(a note to what you have to whisper
shaking into your ear
when falling into the Sleep)

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