This current isn't new, but it's fresh like
a smell you can see in colors so fly,
in oranges so stark and greens that strike
in droplets on your nose, haze in your eye:
My stomach rumbles, purrs; I hear the haze,
lemon-red, canary burgundy wines–
hugging up on my neck, the beat, still, plays;
I can see time in circles, angles and lines:
While hazy heads and hearts wind around me,
my colored flesh seems so real to the touch
that I could have and hold a piece of me,
and it would be the same as a goose-clutch:
The feel of plastic under my fingers
says that in its smoothness eyesight lingers.
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