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Old Typewriter

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Bookshelf

 

Darkness.

 

Sudden line of sunlight lifts spaciousness, of a wall, expanding,       

revealing the corner to a bookshelf: The spine of an anthology,

“Burnt Tongues” sticks out bulbously,       

    

and invisible ideas are suggested on the tips; An impression of a universe off of a spec,

 

but never can we read a closed book:     

 

compression of pages implying an entirety at once,

next to other instantly implied entireties. Open the cover, 

 

and there’s a slow decompression;    

an impression gradually proven/disproven; a spec 

                                   

to a universe, then closed; a compression of pages

recalls its decompression

 

            when we look upon a book we’ve already read.

 

Turn away to write this,

and turn back,

finding 

 

condensation of a sight

 

filling:   

 

Darkness.    

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