Small breaches to hang a life upon
Move through us like metonymy.
Moments detached from moments
Take on a grace beyond origin,
Swirling with a nonchalant elan
Around our feet in a fleeting dance
Only a shaman attuned to the world
Can truly disaggregate.
Yet, here we are, nevertheless,
With inarticulate desire clotted
In our throats, frantically revising
A mosaic as it crumbles into dust.
We are the sibyl to ourselves,
Speaking a language we cannot divine.
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