• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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Everything is just on top
of everything and you
and me. Thoughts stack
like paper on a desk
nobody knows who uses.
If shoulders were built
to carry they would have thumbs.
I can’t look out of the window this week.
The shower is just a rain cloud
we’re renting. I catch myself
in moments enjoying the taste
of an orange or the feel of carpet
pretending it is grass. Grey is a shade
waiting to be painted. I need to get
rid of the tins of blue I can’t stop
piling up and up.