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To be an inanimate object
Enough of mind, and heart.
Someone turn me off.
Pack the story into a deep, arid trunk.
Don’t write any more in fluid ink.
Siphon the dark running river to put out the sun.
Cut out the moon like the bottom of a tin can.
Fix the bolts, tighten each hinge, hang me on a nail.
Let the dust that floats down be the poem.
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