Snippets from a Close-up of a Sculpture

Original heirs

began to die

in a web of branches

at the center of the world

like something static,

or a blade dulled.

 

Too adrift to see the expanse,

Around a sense of balance.

 

Down in the water that only gets deeper,

I’m more arid still.

 

Through the look he gave me,

The first point the eyes fall on

Were his wet boots.

 

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