the infinite finitudes

there is no wooing its grid head
sam
to say uncle in the mirror
where the sacred grove persist
undo its nameless hours
and to its twisted words
consist
of twisted worlds
where speaking shadows
lay leavening
across the strings
but cannot cut
but cannot cut them
for fate will have no scissors
nor any hands
but only the implacable
grid head
sam
where juggernaut explode
into its own
maternal
material
self
where the cleaving contour
holds the shape
of its own cut
so that it is
no different


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