our cubism, or parallelogramatics
the personal space of separation
a box from head to toe
and chest to shoulder blades
born, raised, and buried
will you sit here with me
while we can?
do we fit? or are my angles
too smooth... jagged
random or systematically unfit?
for our embracing conversation
wordless and replete,
like puzzle pieces and seminal seeds
if we’ll be, we’ll stand for it
otherwise, it’s best to stay seated
in imaginaridom, our best hallucination
of what’s to be.
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