INK, AT LEAST IN THE FORM OF PIXELS
‘Between my finger and my thumb’ lies
an uncomfortable amount of ink
in the form of pixels
Yet, I have much too eyes
For sandcastles and all air sandwiches
Fin? Because who says art
and writing can’t be separate
from each other question
I have for the ink
A being who has questions for being
Since the beginning is an illusion
And has been an illusion, wait.
Haven’t I said that already?
Scratched record, tape deck, routine.
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