I write with my fingers to keep out the

devil; my core pulsates to the tapped beat
of fingers on keys with malingering
ease, and I live inside through outer deaths:
This is just how it is, like natural
effects; like gas bubbles that disappear;
as you sip your aranciata, feral
kittens line up to see your face unpeel:
That ten percent juice went straight to your head,
which expanded by bubbles, thought itself
higher than organic functions, unsaid
after centuries of science and poor health:
And so these digits stay nimble despite
the unerring conviction of my sight.
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