Fox back, shuffling, sling-armed.
Freshly bleached, and the body over
combed, or toward you.
Equipped with a zipper, equipped with a hood,
an identity, a test for the brittleness of glass.
The molten, tending toward the stature of
a gnome, proves that solitude induces a
gemlike hardening. She asked him to repeat,
“compactification,” like discovering something
already behind glass. Like making yourself
undiscoverable behind a hatch of swishing grasses,
under light like algae,
under the length of a stranger’s life,
over the burn marks from something crazy on
the platform, and the one right type,
from which we all walk home at varying distances.
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