Fluid streams of oblivion

Look, day falls the more you

look night falls the more you

look at where you fall

into day out of night,

out of night into day,

out or in, or in the out of time

is there a silhouette?

Or is the make up to the made up-set

by the undulations that feel both below

and above, the water’s sleeping covet?

Despondent eddy’s resist

fixed fist patterns

where your shadow

wanders in itself

in the brush tickle

of your fall, falls

to the depth

in the mess of time

where the wormglass sinkhole

in the waters mirage,

is a clove, stagnating

a thousand fleeting selves

that pools the sunk water to pull

me around the circle wake’s whisper,

far inside the past’s dark clog passage

of pleasure; my blindness opens out

in half-light, undercurrents of day fall

beside me, beside her

in the quiet tempest of this lake

where words are years in slake

and the choice my words make

detach and retract to entangle

the collapse of holding you

into the love of losing you

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