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you are my bread
and the hairline
noise
of my bones
you are almost
the sea

you are not stone
or molten sound
I think
you have no hands

this kind of bird flies backward
and this love
breaks on a windowpane
where no light talks

this is not time
for crossing tongues
(the sand here
never shifts)

I think
tomorrow
turned you
and you will
shine
and shine
unspent and underground


Underground Flower reads Novembre Magazine
Vincent Guesthouse // Coventry Village, 19 February

w/ Torre, Rahul, Nathan, Paola & Ava Phen ⁣⁣

Curated by Underground Flower
Images by Torre Alain & Ladislav Kyllar for Toga.jp ⁣
Séance by Torre Alain
Poem by Diane di Prima